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5  J 

II 


LINES    OF    LIFE 


HENRY  W.  NEVINSON 


BONI 

Publishers 


AND 


LIVERIGHT 
New  York 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


LINES   OF   LIFE 


BY  THE   S*AME   ^AUTHOR 

NEIGHBOURS  OF  OURS  :  Scenes  of 
East  End  Life. 

IN     THE     VALLEY      OF      TOPHET : 

Scenes  of  Black  Country  Life. 

THE  THIRTY  DAYS'  WAR  :  Scenei 
in  the  Greek  and  Turkish  War  of  1897. 

LADYSMITH  :  A  Diary  of  the  Siege. 

CLASSIC  GREEK  LANDSCAPE  AND 
ARCHITECTURE  :  Text  to  John  Pulley- 
love's  Pictures  of  Greece. 

THE    PLEA   OF   PAN. 

BETWEEN  THE  ACTS  :  Scenes  in  the 
Author's  Experience. 

ON     THE     OLD     ROAD     THROUGH 

FRANCE       TO      FLORENCE:     French 
Chapters  to  Hallam  Murray's  Pictures. 

BOOKS  AND  PERSONALITIES  :  A 
Volume  of  Criticism. 

A  MODERN  SLAVERY  :  An  Investiga- 
tion of  the  Slave  System  in  Angola  and  the 
Islands  of  San  Thome  and  Principe. 

THE  DAWN  IN  RUSSIA  :  Scenes  in 
the  Revolution  of  1905-1906. 

THE  NEW  SPIRIT  IN  INDIA:  Scene. 
during1  the  Unrest  of  1907-1908. 

ESSAYS   IN    FREEDOM. 

THE  GROWTH  OF  FREEDOM:  A 
Summary  of  the  History  of  Democracy. 

ESSAYS   IN    REBELLION. 

THE   DARDANELLES  CAMPAIGN. 


LINES   OF   LIFE 


BY 


HENRY  W.   NEVINSON 


BONI        AND        LIVERIGHT 
PUBLISHERS        192O        NEW   YORK 


CONTENTS 


PAOK 

A    JOURNEY               .                     .  .  .  .  .9 

THE    ROSE                 .                    .  .  .  .  .12 

VITA  NUOVA  XXI  .  .  .  14 

SITTING  AT  A  PLAY          .  .  .  .  I  5 

A  BALLADE  OF  PLACE       .  .  .  .  17 

THE  DEMONIAC    .              .  .  .  .  1 8 

A    SHRINE                  .                    .  .  .  .  .20 

TIME    AND    TIDE   .                    .  .  .  .  .21 

SOUTHWARD    BOUND              .  .  .  .  .22 

AT    SEA    ...  ...       23 

ON    GUARD                .                    .  .  .  .  24 

THE    COMMON    ROUND          .  .  .  .  •       25 

A    MEETING              .                    .  .  .  .  25 

THE    HALLOWED    STEPS       .  .  .  .  .26 

AFTER    EPIPHANY                     .  ...       27 

AN    EMPTY    BOX    .                    .  .  .  .  .28 

DEATH    IN    LIFE     .                    .  .  .  .  •        29 

SPACE       .                    .                    .  .  •  .  -3° 

AUTUMN                     .                    .  .  .  •  •        3O 

PYTHAGORAS    AT    ARGOS      .  31 

MISERICORDE          ...  •        32 

AT   THIRTY-FIVE  ...  -34 

"  OH    FOR    MORE    WORLDS   TO    CONQUER  !  "  .  .       34 

AN    OLD    PORTRAIT                .  -35 

GOOD-BYE                 .  •       '35 

CREMATION             .  •        3^ 

A    FRENCH    SUNDIAL               .  .  -3^ 

DIVINE    FRENZY     .                    .  .  .  •  •        3*> 


43205; 


6  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SOULS      .                   .                   .                   .                   .  .  -36 

SHEEP-SHEARING   .....  37 

THOMAS    A    KEMPIS                .                    .                    .  •     •               •        37 
ST.    JOHN    OF    AMIENS           .                                        ...        39 

PRAYER.  .  .  -41 

THE    PICTURESQUE  ...  J.  I 

A    HOLIDAY  ....  .42 

ABROAD  ....  Al 

IN  CENTRAL  AFRICA        .             .             .  .  -45 

A  GERMAN  WINTER          .              .              .  .  -45 

PILGRIM'S  SONG                 .              .              .  .                   46 

BLAGOVESCHENSK  :     igOO   ...  -47 

HOME,    SWEET    HOME           .                   .                   .  .                          48 

A    BALLADE    OF    TIME           .                    .                    .  .  -5° 

THE  SIREN  .  .  •      51 

AFFATIM  EDI,  BIBI,  LUS1               .  .  •      52 

THE  HAUNTED  SPRING:   1915      .  .  -53 

AN  ANCIENT  BATTLEFIELD              .              .  .  -55 

THE  FOOL  IN  GOD            .              .              .  .                   56 

THE  FOOL  IN  MAN           .              .              .  .  -57 

WOUNDED                  .                    .                    .                    .  .  -57 

EPIMENIDES   THE    CRETAN                     .                   .  .                          6 1 

THE    RETURN    OF    ALCESTIS                 .  .  .       6 1 

FORWARD                  .                   .                   .                   .  .  -7O 

DEDICATA                 .                   .                   .                   .  .  .71 

A    PRAYER    IN    SPRING          .                   .                   .  .  -75 

SOLDIER    M.P.        .                   .                   .                   .  .  -78 

A    CABINET    MINISTER           .                    .                    .  .  -79 

A    VIGIL  8  I 


ERRATA. 

Page  14,  third  line  from  bottom,  for  "  And  with  his  a  salutation  " 

read  "And  with  his  salutation." 
Page   27,   line  5  from  top,  for  "of  hallowed  stones"  read  "of 

hollowed  stones." 
Page   30,   end   of  third   line   in   "Autumn,"  for  "dread"  read 

' '  drear. " 
Page  47,  fourth   line   from  bottom,  for  "  Christians  dear  "  read 

"  Russians  dear." 
Page  76,  line  16  from  top,  for  "  Peace  came  undreamt  of"  read 

"Joy  came  undreamt  of." 


"  Often  in  my  past  life  the  selfsame  dream  has  come  to 
me,  sometimes  in  one  form,  sometimes  in  another,  but 
always  saying  the  same  thing  : — '  Follow  the  Muse,  Socrates  ! 
Strictly  meditate  the  Muse.'  In  old  days  I  thought  the 
dream  was  only  encouraging  and  inciting  me  to  work  at  the 
very  thing  I  was  after.  As  spectators  hound  on  the  runners 
in  a  race  with  their  cheers,  the  dream,  I  supposed,  was 
hounding  me  along  the  course  I  was  already  following ;  since 
the  pursuit  of  wisdom  is  the  highest  art  of  the  Muse,  and  I 
was  pursuing  wisdom.  But  when  the  trial  was  over,  and  the 
festival  of  Apollo  delayed  my  execution,  I  thought  that,  if 
after  all  the  dream  was  ordering  me  to  '  cultivate  the  Muse  ' 
in  the  common  meaning  of  the  words,  I  ought  not  to  disobey, 
but  to  do  my  best  in  that  line.  For  it  seemed  safer  not  to 
depart  this  life  before  I  had  absolved  and  purified  my  soul  by 
making  poems,  in  obedience  to  the  dream." 

SOCRATES,  on  the  morning  of  his  execution  :  Phaedo  If. 


A  few  of  these  verses  have  already  appeared 
in  my  books  called  "  Between  the  Acts  "  and 
'•'•A  Plea  of  Pan"  and  they  are  here 
included  by  permission  of  the  present 
publishers,  Messrs.  Duckworth  £sf  Co.  A 
few  have  appeared  in  "Tke  Nation" 


LINES    OF    LIFE 


O 


A     JOURNEY 

H,  speed  !     Oh,  haste  ! 

Plunge  to  the  solid  land, 
Ship,  having  traversed  the  intervening  waste 
Of  tedious  water  !     Plunge  onward  till  you  stand 
Unmoved  by  baffling  gales  and  dashing  swirl 
Of  sea-foam,  nor  by  the  fog  encumbered  !     Drive 
Your  black  prow  through  the  successive  waves  that  curl 
In  seething  semicircles  up  your  keel  ! 
O  ship,  I  would  your  engines  were  alive, 
And  that  your  furnace-heart  might  feel 
The  passion  blazing  in  your  plates  of  steel  ! 
I  would  you  were  alive  ! 

Speed,  every  wheel 

Spinning  along  the  rails  ! 

Speed  through  the  vineyards,  make  the  white  olives  reel 
Before  the  windows  like  a  flashing  show, 

So  quick  that  eyesight  fails  ! 

Devour  the  ground,  with  glowing  phlanges  pacing 
Mile  after  mile,  swift  as  a  wild  star  racing, 

And,  like  a  comet's  hair, 

Let  the  smoke  phantom  mark  the  course  you  go  ! 
Shriek  through  the  cities  of  old  Popes  and  kings, 

O  train,  that  lovers  all  may  know 
A  love  is  passing  by,  beyond  compare 

With  other  loving  things  ! 


io  LINES  OF   LIFE 

Old  Popes  and  kings,  why  were  you  born  so  soon  ? 
You  should  have  waited  till  it  was  love's  noon, 

And  known  the  noontide  where 
Love  climbs  the  zenith  by  a  golden  stair  : 

You  should  have  waited,  kings  ! 

Another  city  there  ! 

And  evening  falls 

On  quiet  houses,  roofs,  and  purple  walls, 
And  streets  deserted  in  the  lamplight  glare, 

And  lovers  wandering  home. 
So  evening  falls  to  them,  and  so  to  me 
It  will  fall  to-morrow  !    Quick  let  the  darkness  come, 
Building  her  shadowy  bridge  between  the  days, 
Brief  as  one  stepping-stone,  that  I  may  see 
Sunset  and  sunrise  mingle,  and  the  night 
Slide  like  a  torrent  lost  down  hidden  ways  ! 

O  darkness,  bring  to  all  else  delight, 
Bring  them  the  appointed  lane,  the  orchard  deep, 
Or  twilit  chamber  ;    let  the  dumb  midnight  keep 
Their  secret  in  the  wood  or  by  the  stream  ! 
But  to  me  bring  a  nothingness  of  sleep — 
Oh,  swift  as  love's  unerring  sight, 

And  deeper  than  a  dream — 

A  dreamless  sleep  ! 

To-day  ! 

Is  that  a  gleam 

Of  morning  through  the  rain, 
Whitening  the  billows  of  careering  steam 
And  glimmering  on  the  pane  ? 


A  JOURNEY  ii 

To-day — to-day  ! 

Let  me  not  miss  one  moment  of  its  hours, 
That  march  in  triumph  up  their  sacred  way 

Of  wind  and  sun  and  showers  ; 
But  swiftly  they  must  march — Oh,  swiftly  too  ! 
How  many  moments  till  I  see  again 
The  Paris  streets,  the  bridges,  and  the  Seine, 

And  cross  the  city  through 
To  a  land  of  streams,  and  poplar  trees, 
And  sandy  hills  ?     Then  narrow  seas — 
Dim  cliffs — the  hedgerow  squares — 
And  London  with  her  darkening  towers, 
And  columned  smoke,  and  lurid  summer  airs, 

The  platform,  and  the  pausing  train, 
The   unconscious   crowd — Then   speed   through   street 

and  lane, 

Speed  to  a  house  of  consecrated  stairs — 
The  common,  golden  stairs  ! 

How  the  horizon  flares 
With  flaming  signals  beckoning  me  ! 

I  hear  the  great  cliffs  cry, 

Calling  across  the  sea  ; 

Earth,  sea  and  heaven,  commingled  in  a  rout 
Of  glory,  pass,  the  clouds  and  waters  flee, 
Shouting  together,  and  from  the  depth  of  sky 

Great  stars  invisible  shout  ; 

The  sun  and  moon  embrace, 
And  all  the  spirits  of  the  world  go  shouting  by. 
O  men  and  women,  shall  not  you  rejoice, 

And  the  whole  living  race, 


12  LINES  OF  LIFE 

Dwelling  in  wilderness  and  houses  dear, 
Join  with  the  firmament's  exultant  voice  ? 
For  I  come  near — Oh,  near  ! 
And  speed  along  the  street 
(Make  lightning  slow,  my  feet  !) 
And  reach  the  door,  and  hear 
Behind  the  door,  where  is  love's  dwelling-place, 

A  sudden  stir  inside — 
A  stir,  a  footstep  !     How  shall  a  board  divide 

Two  souls  that  burn  to  meet 
As  meeting  flames  ?     It  opens— opens  wide — 
Wide  as  two  arms  !     And  then  a  breast,  a  face- 
Two  arms,  a  breast,  a  face  ! 


THE    ROSE 

QTEPHEN,  clerk  of  Oxford  town, 
w_3     Oh,  the  weary  while  he  lies, 
Wrapt  in  his  old  college  gown, 
Burning,  burning,  till  he  dies  ! 
And  'tis  very  surely  said, 
He  shall  burn  when  he  is  dead, 
All  aflame  from  foot  to  head. 

Stephen  said  he  knew  a  rose, 
One  and  two,  yea,  roses  three, 

Lovelier  far  than  any  those 
Which  at  service-time  we  see — 


THE  ROSE  13 

Emblems  of  atonement  done, 
And  of  Christ's  beloved  One, 
And  of  Mary's  mystic  Son. 


Stephen  said  his  roses  grew 

All  upon  a  milk-white  stem  ; 
Side  by  side  together  two, 
One  a  little  up  from  them, 
Sweeter  than  the  rose's  breath, 
Rosy  as  the  sun  riseth, 
Warm  beside — that  was  his  death. 


Stephen  swore,  as  God  knows  well, 

Just  to  touch  the  topmost  bud, 
He  would  give  his  soul  to  hell — 
Soul  and  body,  bones  and  blood  ; 
Hell  has  come  before  he  dieSj 
Burning,  burning,  there  he  lies, 
And  he  neither  speaks  nor  cries. 


Oh,  what  might  those  roses  be  ? 

Once,  before  the  dawn  was  red, 
Did  he  wander  out  to  see 
If  the  rose  were  still  abed  ? 
Did  he  find  a  rose-tree  tall 
Standing  by  the  silent  wall  ? 
Did  he  touch  the  rose  of  all  ? 
2 


i4  LINES  OF   LIFE 

"  Stephen,  was  it  worth  the  pain, 

Just  to  touch  a  breathing  rose  ? " 
Ah,  to  think  of  it  again, 

See,  he  smiles  amid  his  woes  ! 
Did  he  dream  that  hell  would  be 
Years  hereafter  ?     Now,  you  see, 
Hell  is  here — and  where  is  she  ? 

At  my  word,  through  all  his  face 
Flames  the  infernal  fire  within  ; 
Mary,  Mary,  grant  me  grace 
Still  to  keep  my  soul  from  sin  ! 
Thanks  to  God,  my  rose  is  one 
Not  so  sweet,  but  all  my  own, 
Not  so  fair,  but  mine  alone. 


VITA    NUOVA    XXI 

WHY  seek  new  praises  for  my  lady's  grace, 
When  he  who  passed  through  hell  to  paradise, 
And  saw  no  sweeter  shape  before  him  rise 
Than  was  his  lady  in  her  heavenly  place, 
Already  sings  the  wonder  of  her  face 
Shedding  a  gentleness  because  her  eyes 
Are  homes  of  Love  himself,  wherein  he  lies 
And  with  his  a  salutation  doth  abase 
The  trembling  heart  that  greets  her. 

Oh,  to  hear 
Her  speech  conveys  a  sweet  humility, 


VITA   NUOVA   XXI  15 

And  blest  is  who  beholds  her  but  awhile  ; 
How  shall  he  tell,  or  how  shall  rightly  bear 
In  mind  such  image,  should  he  only  see 
The  sudden  miracle  of  her  little  smile  ? 


SITTING    AT    A    PLAY 

O  LOVELY  head,  so  small,  so  brown, 
So  neatly  coiled  about  with  hair, 
I  laugh  to  think  as  I  look  down 
Upon  that  lower  line  of  seats 
And  watch  you  lovely  there — 

I  laugh  to  think,  as  there  you're  set 
So  primly  at  another's  side, 
How  queer  a  shock  the  house  would  get 
If  it  could  see  what  images 
That  little  head  can  hide  ! 

Could  they  but  take  that  pretty  hair, 
And  lift  the  delicate  bone  away, 
And  strip  the  working  cellules  bare, 
And  in  that  dear  beloved  brain 
Read  what  the  cellules  say, 

That  interlace  and  twist  about — 
The  tiniest  fairies  ever  seen — 
And  dance  together  in  and  out, 
As  quick  and  noiseless  in  the  dance 
As  fairies  on  the  green. 


1 6  LINES   OF   LIFE 

Who  watching  them  would  ever  guess 
What  picture  in  your  mind  they  raise 
That  seem  to  dance  in  wantonness, 
Pursuing  as  at  hide-and-seek 
Uncalculated  ways  ? 

And  yet  together  they  compose 
A  summer  scene,  a  moonlit  night, 
A  garden,  a  sweet-scented  rose, 
A  cottage  glimmering  in  the  moon, 
A  door  not  shut  too  tight, 

And  two  that  enter  by  the  door, 
And  stand  so  close  embraced  they  cast 
One  shadow  on  the  moonlit  floor  ; 
Ah,  to  be  those  embraced  so  close, 
So  lovingly,  so  fast  ! 

Joy  above  joy  that  in  my  brain 
The  cellules  dance  the  selfsame  way, 
Compose  the  selfsame  scene  again, 
Reveal  the  very  figures  there, 
And  form  the  words  they  say  ! 

How  fortunate  that  hair  and  bone 
Hide  all  those  dancing  cellules  over, 
And  none  may  guess  but  two  alone 
The  meaning  of  that  fairy  dance, 
The  scenes  the  two  heads  cover  ! 


SITTING   AT   A    PLAY  17 

O  lovely  head,  we  two  sit  there, 
Conspirators  as  in  foreign  lands  ; 
What  for  the  audience  do  we  care  ? 
What  for  the  play  ?     The  curtain  falls  ; 
Now  we  must  clap  our  hands. 


A    BALLADE    OF    PLACE 

THERE  was  a  time  I  thought  to  travel  far, 
Beyond  the  village,  through  the  garden  gate, 
Down  the  white  road,  across  the  harbour  bar, 
And  out  upon  the  ocean  desolate  ; 
Oh,  what  a  weariness  it  was  to  wait 
Till  I  could  push  my  little  boat  from  shore 
And  steer,  a  new  Columbus,  round  the  Nore, 
Or  follow  Drake  all  flaming  to  Cadiz  ! 

But  now  I  dream  of  wandering  seas  no  more, 
There  is  no  place  but  where  my  lady  is. 

Tell  other  men  where  other  marvels  are, 
Where  rites  impenetrable  consecrate 
The  glittering  temple-domes  of  Candahar, 
Or  where  the  Pyramids,  confronting  fate, 
Watch  over  Egypt's  immemorial  state  ; 
Tell  them  of  jewelled  vaults  in  Travancore, 
And  bid  them  all  the  haunted  bays  explore 
Of  Asia,  slumbering  on  her  memories  ; 

For  me,  who  find  what  I  have  sought  before, 
There  is  no  place  but  where  my  lady  is. 


1 8  LINES   OF   LIFE 

Let  down  the  mainsail,  loosen  every  spar, 
Drop  the  deep  anchor,  disembark  the  freight  ; 
In  all  the  sailor's  heaven  one  only  star 
Lit  me  to  port  with  promise  passionate, 
And  all  the  log  records  one  only  date 
When  to  her  heart  the  ocean  currents  bore 
Me  toiling  long  at  random  with  the  oar, 
If  haply  I  might  reach  such  isle  as  this, 

Where    my    soul    lands    and     heaps    her     magic 
store  ; 

There  is  no  place  but  where  my  lady  is. 

ENVOI. 

Queen,  to  thy  loveliness  in  love  I  pour 
All  love,  like  blood  upon  a  temple's  floor  ; 
In  mercy  to  thy  lover  grant  as  his 
Love's  only  station  at  thy  bosom's  door  ; 
There  is  no  place  but  where  my  lady  is. 


THE    DEMONIAC 

HE  knew  a  devil  lurked  within, 
Like  a  shy  rat  it  gnawed  his  heart, 
Behind  his  breast's  partition  thin 
It  roamed  at  will  from  part  to  part  ; 
But  how  to  coax  the  devil  out 
Defied  the  village  art. 


THE   DEMONIAC  19 

They  pounded  spiders  up  with  toads, 
And  mixed  them  in  his  special  bread  ; 
They  pricked  him  down  the  street  with  goads, 
And  rolled  him  in  the  nettle  bed  ; 
But  at  the  last  they  all  agreed 
He'd  not  be  cured  till  dead. 

He  stared  upon  the  unpitying  sky, 
And  slunk  about  the  lonely  ways, 
Striving  to  hide  from  every  eye 
The  torment  of  his  haunted  face  ; 
He  knew  himself  a  creature  loathed 
By  all  the  human  race. 

He  knew  the  sentence  on  his  soul, 
From  rack  to  rack  condemned  to  go  ; 
Down  an  abyss  he  felt  it  roll 
Of  smoke  and  indistinguished  woe  ; 
"  What  have  I  done,"  he  asked  the  winds, 
"  To  be  confounded  so  ?  " 

Each  morning,  like  a  poisoned  wine, 
He  drank  the  memory  of  his  doom  ; 
All  day  in  horror's  shadowy  mine 
He  dug  the  galleries  of  gloom, 
And  watched  a  shapeless  thing  in  dread 
Ever  before  him  loom. 

There  came  my  lady  Rosalie 
Bright  as  a  rainbow  up  the  street  ; 


20  LINES  OF   LIFE 

The  sun  of  passion's  charity 
Shone  on  her  mouth  and  eyelids  sweet  ; 
She  was  herself  a  bounteous  sun 
From  her  eyes  down  to  her  feet. 

He  caught  the  border  of  her  dress, 
And  clinging  to  her  knees  did  kneel, 
He  felt  her  fingers'  tenderness 
About  his  maddened  forehead  steal, 
And  the  devil  came  sliding  out  of  his  mouth 
As  easily  as  an  eel. 

Methinks  my  lady  Rosalie 
Is  of  herself  the  dull  earth's  leaven  ; 
Methinks  there  keeps  her  company 
A  pure  and  healing  air  from  heaven  ; 
One  devil  from  the  clown  she  cast, 
And  from  her  lover,  seven. 


A    SHRINE 

I    TOO  was  born  a  pilgrim,  and  have  sought 
From  land  to  land,  by  holy  reverence  led, 
The  relics  of  mankind's  immortal  dead 
Resting  in  shrines  elaborately  wrought 
By  kings  in  adoration,  and  have  brought 
Unwonted  gifts  to  many  a  saintly  head 
Which  lay  unnoticed  in  the  common  bed 
Whose  counterpane  is  grass  ;  but  now  as  nought 


A   SHRINE  21 

I  deem  such  pilgrimages. 

Ancient  stones 

And  mouldering  sanctitudes  !    what  time  for  them 
When  morning,  noon,  and  eve  I  kneel  apart, 
Turning  to  one  within  whose  hallowed  bones 
Beats,  warm  with  life,  that  miracle  of  a  heart 
Which  is  my  Mecca  and  Jerusalem  ? 

TIME    AND    TIDE 

WHEN  life  is  rent,  and  the  remorseless  road 
Shuts  you  from  eyes  that  but  for  you  are 

blind, 

And  back  I  turn  to  that  unchanged  abode, 
And  close  the  door  behind, 

And  feel  the  forsaken  rooms,  and  wander  through 
The  silent  passages  haunted  by  your  feet, 
And  lie  upon  the  bed  that  breathes  of  you 
From  pillow  and  from  sheet, 

A  chilling  flood  creeps  upward  to  my  heart  ; 
I  am  the  girl  fast-bound  by  Solway  side, 
And  all  the  gloomy  crowd  is  ranged  apart. 
And  watches  for  the  tide, 

Which  shivers  up  her  ankles  to  her  knee, 
And  at  the  breast  comes  edging  in  between  ; 
And  now  those  English  hills  are  faint  to  see 
And  now  the  sun  is  green 


22  LINES  OF   LIFE 

SOUTHWARD    BOUND 

NOW  the  wild-eyed  Northern  Star 
Dances  on  the  horizon's  bar, 
Dances,  rises,  vanishes, 
And  we  break  the  southern  seas. 

Nameless  constellations  stand 
White  above  a  nameless  land  ; 
London — London  lies  to-night 
Set  with  constellations  white. 

Murmuring  to  the  swinging  tides, 
To  and  fro  her  river  slides  ; 
Down  the  streams  of  square  and  street 
Murmuring  go  the  human  feet. 

Drunk  with  life  the  city  reels, 
Joy  is  borne  on  burning  wheels, 
Lovers  come  and  lovers  part, 
Lovers  waken  heart  on  heart. 

Like  a  flame  of  lonely  fire 
Stands  the  star  of  my  desire  : 
Longing  as  I  long,  she  stands  ; 
Empty  are  her  amorous  hands. 

Both  her  hands  uncomforted 
She  would  lay  around  my  head  ; 
She  would  give  her  being  whole, 
She  would  give  me  all  her  soul. 


SOUTHWARD   BOUND  23 

While  the  planets  go  their  way, 
She  would  hold  me  close  till  day, 
Close  to  her  heart  she  would  hold  me — 
And  I  sail  a  southern  sea, 

And  the  wild-eyed  Northern  Star 
Dances  on  the  horizon's  bar  ; 
Lanterns  at  the  masthead  high 
Swing  across  an  unhallowed  sky. 


AT    SEA 

O   MOUTH  that  clung,  O  little  hands  ! 
They  took  him  from  my  heart, 
They  stitched  him  up  in  sacking  bands — 
The  mouth  that  clung,  the  little  hands  ! — 

And  laid  him  down  apart  ; 
A  flag  was  spread  to  hide  the  thing — 

The  little  thing  that  lived  in  me — 
And  words  were  said  and  a  bell  did  ring, 

They  pushed  it  off  into  the  sea — 

The  little  thing  that  lived  in  me. 

Oh,  white  and  green  and  greener  still, 

He  sank  into  the  cold  ! 
Down  the  ship's  side  he  sank,  until — 
Oh,  white  and  green  and  greener  still  ! — 

He  vanished  from  my  hold  ; 


24  LINES   OF   LIFE 

The  night  comes  on,  and  mothers  bear 
The  babies  to  their  beds  again, 

Last  night — last  night  a  babe  was  there 
Who  knows  not  hunger  now  nor  pain, 
And  never  goes  to  bed  again. 

Cold,  cold,  and  dark,  and  all  alone, 

He  neither  sleeps  nor  cries — 
The  life  that  was  my  own  life's  own — 
The  ship  moves  on,  and  all  alone 

Far,  far  behind  he  lies. 
Last  night  he  lay  against  my  side — 

The  mouth  that  clung,  the  little  hands  !- 
Down  through  the  dark  I  see  him  slide, 

Or  tossed  on  cold,  unpitying  sands — 

O  mouth  that  clung,  O  little  hands  ! 


ON    GUARD 

LIKE  a  brown  savage  who  beside  the  door 
Stands  with  drawn  sword  through  all  the  length 

of  night, 

That  death  may  find  no  entrance  to  the  floor 
Where,  sick  to  death,  lies  all  his  world's  delight, 

Till,  when  the  daybreak  ends  his  silent  care, 
He  enters  softly  with  a  tranquil  brow, 
And  as  he  enters  finds  that  death  is  there — 
Such  were  I,  did  you  cease  to  love  me  now. 


THE  COMMON  ROUND     25 
THE  COMMON  ROUND 

^IS  sad  enough  to  shut  the  unmoving  eyes, 

Fold  up  in  sheets  the  darling  limbs,  and  say 
Farewell  again,  when  once  again  she  dies 
And,  where  the  breast  is,  thuds  the  inhuman  clay 

'Tis  sad  enough  ;  but  what  is  it  to  move 
Round  an  unchanging  circle  far  away, 
To  work,  to  feed,  and  in  the  shroud  of  love 
Drag  out  the  common  uses  of  the  day  ? 

A    MEETING 

JUST  where  a  white  road  leaves  the  northern  lake 
To  slide  unseen  among  the  mountains  old, 
Even  there  Love  met  me,  and  with  lips  as  cold 
And  sad  as  frozen  harebells  thus  he  spake  : 
"  It  is  I,  you  know  it  well  ;    and  will  you  take 
No  heed  of  one  who  in  this  desert  wold 
Long  since  came  to  you  first,  and  shyly  told 
All  my  dear  secret  ?    will  you  then  forsake 
Me  in  the  selfsame  valley  ? " 

And  there  swept 

Grief  like  a  flood  upon  me,  and  I  cried  : 
4  Yes,  Love,  I  know  you  well  and  hold  you  dear  ; 
You  are  the  same,  the  streams  and  hills  are  here  ; 
But  where  is  she  who  brought  me  to  your  side  ?  " 
And  suddenly  he  fell  on  my  neck  and  wept. 


26  LINES  OF   LIFE 

THE    HALLOWED    STEPS 


noble  Saint  is  nobly  shrined," 
The  saintly  bishop  said, 
"  With  gold  and  marble  richly  lined 
And  jewels  is  his  bed. 

"  A  diamond  blazes  on  his  breast, 

A  ruby  on  his  hand  ; 
So  let  him  lie  and  take  his  rest, 

And  save  the  northern  land. 

"  And  evermore  the  sacred  sound 

Of  bells  and  melodies 
In  service  due  shall  echo  round 

The  chapel  where  he  lies. 

"  One  thing  remains  :    this  ledge  of  stones 

Around  the  sculptured  frieze 
Is  worn  in  hollows  by  the  bones 

Of  twice  ten  thousand  knees. 

"  Pilgrims  of  course  must  pray,  but  I 

Will  make  a  set  of  five 
Smooth  marble  steps  before  I  die 

To  keep  my  name  alive." 

The  next  year  came,  and  down  was  hurled 

The  shrine  to  rot  and  rust  ; 
The  Saint  was  blown  about  the  world 

Like  other  common  dust. 


THE   HALLOWED  STEPS  27 

And  now  upon  a  vacant  space 

Where  the  north  wind  bleakly  moans, 

No  sign  remains  to  mark  the  place 
But  just  a  ledge  of  stones, — 

Of  hallowed  stones  ;    the  learned  say, 

"  Here  was  a  shrine,  for  these 
Deep  troughs  and  holes  were  worn  away 

By  twice  ten  thousand  knees. 

"  That  was  a  craze  of  by-gone  years." 

But  still  to  me  the  place 
As  fervid  of  the  past  appears 

As  some  old,  wrinkled  face, 

Whereon  deep  lines  alone  reveal 

What  passions  there  have  raged, 
What  woes  that  weary  time  could  heal, 

What  fire,  by  time  assuaged. 

And,  but  for  these,  all's  dumb  at  last 

Grief's  sanctuary  is  rust, 
And  love  is  blown  about  the  past 

Like  other  common  dust. 


AFTER    EPIPHANY 

SHOULD  I  remember  my  departed  state 
When  on  the  heaven  love's  guiding  star  arose — 
Love's  star  now  vanished — dreary  I  seem  as  those 
Wise  men  of  old  who  turned  from   Bethlehem's  gate 


28  LINES   OF   LIFE 

Back  toward  their  obscure  East  to  spell  how  fate 

By  trivial  constellations  threatened  woes 

On  crumbling  Babylon,  or  where  Ganges  flows 

To  make  the  dusky  bathers  supplicate 

Quaint  gods  in  old  Benares. 

Surely  they 

Sadly  remembered  oft  the  solemn  stir 
Of  unimagined  hopes  that  night  they  found 
A  star-lit  manger  where  an  infant  lay 
Beside  his  mother,  and  upon  the  ground 
They  poured  their  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh 


AN    EMPTY    BOX 

OURELY  the  woman  of  the  sinful  street 
^-}     Who  pushed  her  way  past  many  a  spotless  guest 
And  washed  with  tears,  and  kissed  the  sacred  feet, 
And  wiped  them  with  her  hair,  and  from  her  breast 

Drew  out  an  alabaster  box,  and  poured 
The  precious  ointment  forth,  making  increase 
The  indignant  voices,  till  she  heard  her  Lord 
Saying,  "  Thy  faith  hath  saved  thee,  go  in  peace  " — 

Surely  at  times,  long  after  he  was  dead, 
She  took  the  box  out  from  some  hidden  place, 
And  wept,  recalling  in  a  fragrance  shed 
About  it  still,  the  very  voice  and  face. 


AN   EMPTY   BOX  29 

So  do  I  cherish  up  my  heart,  as  it  were 
An  alabaster  box  in  secret  shrine, 
Retaining  still  a  fragrance  faint  and  rare 
Of  love  long  since  poured  out  at  feet  of  thine; 


DEATH     IN    LIFE 

HERE,  by  the  lifeless  wall, 
Two  souls  immortal  met  ; 
The  sun  marched  over  all, 

We  cared  not  when  he  set  ; 
Love  in  two  souls  aflame 

Joined  flame  and  flame  as  one  ; 
— The  wall  is  much  the  same, 
And  there's  the  marching  sun. 

Quick  movements  of  her  dress, 

With  breathings  out  and  in  ; 
Eyes  closed  for  lovingness, 

The  touch  of  skin  on  skin — 
Oh,  the  first  touch,  the  first 

Touch  of  dear  passion's  will  ! 
— And  of  all  griefs  the  worst 

Is  that  we're  living  still. 

Long  before  living  ends, 

Alone  or  on  the  street 
We  are  like  meeting  friends, 

And  happy  not  to  meet  ; 

3 


3o  LINES  OF   LIFE 

But  that  so  dear  a  thing 
Should  rot  before  we  die 

— O  Death,  here  is  thy  sting  ! 
Here,  Grave,  thy  victory  ! 


SPACE 

AS  one  who  climbs  again  some  mountain  side 
After  long  years  of  sea  or  prairie  plain, 
And  gazes  round  upon  the  horizon  wide, 

Till  nature  reels  beneath  the  joyous  pain 

Of  all  that  gulf  of  'wildering  space  descried, 

So  reels  my  heart  at  sight  of  you  again. 

AUTUMN 

IS  it  a  lark  I  hear  ? 
Over  the  firmament  thin  clouds  are  wild, 
And  autumn's  afternoon  on  roadsides  dread 

Scatters  the  clammy  leaves  ; 
Poor  lark,  who  sang  when  summer  was  a  child, 
The  fields  are  empty  of  their  summer  sheaves, 
Why  tell  of  spring  to  the  declining  year  ? 

Primrose  and  crocus  blue, 
The  winter's  advent  finds  you  shining  there  ; 
Old  earth  has  lost  her  latest  garden  hue, 

And  all  her  bridal's  done  ; 
You  are  the  stars  that  virgin  springtide  bare, 
But  now  the  swallows  gather  to  be  gone, 

Why  gleam  upon  a  heaven  unmeet  for  you  ? 


AUTUMN  31 

What  stirs  so  tenderly, 
Breaking  the  twilit  dulness  of  a  heart 
Where  autumn  whispers  of  a  life  gone  by, 

Dead  leaves  and  dying  song  ? 
It  stirs  !     It  moves  !     It  quickens  every  part  ! 
I  knew  it  once — once  when  the  world  was  young  ! 

Can  it  be  that  ?    Once  more  ?    Before  I  die  ? 


PYTHAGORAS    AT    ARGOS 

A  RRIVED  from  far,  he  trod  the  remembered  ways 
JL\.  Of  that  grave  town  where  he  was  wont  to  be 
With  heroes  old  of  far-resounding  days, 

Gathered  for  wandering  wars  of  land  or  sea. 

There,  crumbling  o'er  a  sculptured  tomb  he  found 
The  rusted  armour  he  himself  did  wear, 

Battling  long  since  at  Troy,  and  underground 
Lay  his  own  body,  long  since  crumbling  there. 

Even  so,  in  wandering  through  the  haunted  nave 
Of  time's  old  church,  I  saw  against  a  stone 

A  panoply  of  love,  hung  o'er  a  grave 
Where  lay  a  rigid  body  once  my  own. 

Why  waste  a  thought  on  long-forgotten  men, 
Or  spell  the  record  of  those  fading  lines  ? 

Sweet  life  is  sweeter  to  me  now  than  then, 
And  round  my  heart  a  nobler  armour  shines. 


32  LINES   OF   LIFE 

MISERICORDE 

HE  came  in  tempest  to  a  convent  old, 
High  up  the  mountains  on  the  Italian  way, 
Seeking  a  shelter  from  the  sullen  cold, 

Where  he  might  wait  the  dear  return  of  day  ; 
Gold  was  his  armour,  and  his  hair  was  gold. 

And  as  he  slumbered  in  a  chamber  dim, 
Came  Misery,  and  she  crept  into  the  bed, 

And  laid  one  hand  upon  the  heart  of  him, 
And  wound  one  wasted  arm  about  his  head  ; 

With  tears  her  eyes  were  heavy  to  the  brim. 

"  My  hair,"  she  said,  "  is  wet  with  snow  and  rain, 
My  garment  lets  the  biting  weather  in, 

My  girdle  is  a  loop  of  rusty  chain, 

The  frost  and  storm  have  crinkled  all  my  skin, 

And  when  I  smile,  half  of  the  smile  is  pain. 

"  I  stand  removed  from  other  women's  grace, 
My  feet  are  cut  with  brambles  and  with  stones, 

My  body  shrinks  into  a  little  space, 

And  through  my  very  breasts  I  feel  the  bones  ; 

Sorrow  has  graved  her  trade-mark  on  my  face. 

"  But  let  me  sleep  beside  this  heart  of  thine  ; 

I  eat  the  crusts  that  dogs  have  sorted  through, 
I  drink  the  dregs  of  vinegar  for  wine  ; 

But  let  me  sleep  as  other  women  do  ; 
No  other  woman  has  a  heart  like  mine." 


MISERICORDE  33 

"  Then  sleep,"  he  said,  "  if  sleep  be  thy  desire  ; 

But  for  thy  loving  heart,  speak  not  of  it  ; 
I  love  Delight,  whom  love  can  never  tire, 

And  Jollity,  who  savours  love  with  wit, 
And  amorous  Passion  with  the  lips  of  fire. 

"  And  I  love  Plenty's  well-contented  form, 
And  the  shy  limbs  of  fugitive  Daintiness  ; 

I  love  the  fragrant  hair,  the  ringers  warm, 
What  pleasure  is  there  in  pale-eyed  distress, 

Sad  at  the  mouth  and  frozen  with  the  storm  ? 

"  But  sleep,  if  sleep  be  thy  desire,"  he  said, 
"  So  that  thou  speak  of  love  no  more  again." 

Thereat  she  rose  from  out  the  narrow  bed, 

And  round  her  loins  she  hooked  the  girdle  chain, 

And  passed  into  the  night,  nor  turned  her  head. 

When  yellow  sunshine  touched  the  convent  old, 
Forthwith  he  fared  upon  his  onward  way, 

And  climbed  the  pass  across  the  mountain  cold, 
Till  all  the  sunny  plain  beneath  him  lay  ; 

Gold  was  his  armour,  and  his  hair  was  gold. 

And  there  within  a  golden  city's  gate 

He  passed  with  gladness,  and  a  palace  found 

High-towered  and  bastioned  as  the  crown  of  ttate, 
Encircling  in  its  walls  a  garden  round, 

With  many  a  grove  to  pleasure  dedicate  ; 


34  LINES  OF   LIFE 

Where  Plenty  day  by  day  her  court  did  keep, 
And  Jollity  and  Delight  made  laughing  love, 

And  Daintiness  allowed  her  feet  to  peep 

Under  her  broidered  gown  as  she  did  move, 

And  Passion  let  him  kiss  her  eyes  to  sleep 

But  ever  came  some  vision  of  the  night 
When  one  besought  him  with  petition  sad, 

And  lay  beside  his  face  a  face  so  white  ; 
And  dreaming  on  the  heart  none  other  had 

He  found  no  solace  in  a  world's  delight. 


AT    THIRTY-FIVE 

NOW  in  the  centre  of  life's  arch  I  stand, 
And  view  its  curve  descending  from  to-day  ; 
How  brief  the  road  from  birth's  mysterious  strand  ! 

How  brief  its  passage  till  it  close  in  grey  ! 
Yet  by  this  bridge  went  all  the  immortal  band, 
And  the  world's  saviour  did  not  reach  half-way. 


"OH,    FOR    MORE    WORLDS    TO 
CONQUER " 

POOR  Alexander  !    was  this  earth 
Too  small  in  your  opinion  ? 
To  me  was  given  at  my  birth 
An  infinite  dominion. 


"OH,  FOR   MORE  WORLDS"        35 

I've  unknown  seas,  and  deserts  wide 
With  scarcely  a  trace  of  fountain  ; 

And  fearsome  monsters  peep  and  hide 
Along  the  lengths  of  mountain. 

And  every  day  begins  anew 

A  strife  of  cruel  ravages, 
For  every  day  my  Grecian  few 

Brave  Oriental  savages. 

So  has  it  been  since  I  was  born  ; 

So  lasts  till  death  or  longer  ; 
More  blest  than  monarchs,  every  morn 

I've  the  same  world  to  conquer. 


AN    OLD    PORTRAIT 

OTRANGE  comfort  !   yet  as  sweet  as  it  is  strange, 
w_J     To  scan  my  present  and  my  youthful  brow, 
And  find,  though  much  is  changed,  so  small  a  change 
In  sin,  which  then  was  quite  as  black  as  now. 


GOOD-BYE 

NOT  from  my  dearest  foe  I'd  take  farewell, 
But  ever  hope  to  meet  beneath  the  sky  ; 
In  each  adieu  there  sounds  a  passing  bell, 
And  every  parting  is  indeed  to  die. 


36  LINES   OF   LIFE 

CREMATION 

HELL  scarce  abolished,  lo  !  upsprings  afresh 
That  ancient,  just,  insatiable  desire  ; 
To  purge  the  soul  and  purify  the  flesh 
Man  has  an  inward  craving  for  the  fire. 

A    FRENCH    SUN-DIAL 

WHERE  the  sun  flashes  from  eternal  snows, 
And  mountains  have   endured    through  years 

untold, 
A  sun-dial  urges,  as  the  traveller  goes, 

Brief  warning  :    "  While  you  look,  you  are  growing 
old." 

DIVINE    FRENZY 

IT  was  thought  before,  and  now  professors  teach, 
Genius  with  madness  holds  alliance  sad  : — 
"  Look  ! "  shriek  our  poets,  "  at  our  life  and  speech, 
Our  lust,  our  vanity,  and  admit  we  are  mad  !  " 

SOULS 

WHEN  I  consider  this  queer  soul  of  mine, 
And  kindred  souls  of  all  my  fellows  here, 
I  am  like  one  to  whom  a  child  divine 
Was  promised  by  an  angel-message  clear, 


SOULS  37 

But  lo  !    the  babe  bears  every  devil's  sign  ; 

God  !    how  she  yearns  with  sorrow,  love,  and  fear  ! 


SHEEP-SHEARING 

^HE  shepherd  sits  like  death  who  takes  his  toll  ; 

J.       The  struggling  sheep  secure  before  him  lies, 
And  feels  the  encumbering  fleeces  off  her  roll, 

And  naked  stands  at  gaze  with  dubious  eyes  ; 
Then  rushes  forth,  like  a  bewildered  soul 

Escaping,  cool  and  white,  to  Paradise. 


THOMAS    A    KEMPIS 

IT  is  a  sound  of  far-off  peace, 
As  from  a  world  of  quiet  things 
Where  the  vexed  soul  may  find  release 
On  gold  and  silver  wings  ; 

So  far  recede  the  hurrying  noise 
And  fretful  interests  of  the  day, 
Discordant  strife  and  raucous  joys 
That  wear  the  soul  away  ; 

And  up  and  down  the  ethereal  space, 
Majestically  clothed  in  white, 
Pure  thoughts  from  far  are  seen  to  pace, 
Conversing  in  the  light. 


432052 


3  8  LINES  OF   LIFE 

So  when  at  times  the  hills  and  sea 
Are  silent  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
And  the  Welsh  fisher  dreamily 
Lets  down  the  baited  snare, 

And  watches  how  the  bubble  wells 
Up  from  the  depth  of  Penmaen  bay, 
He  seems  to  hear  a  sound  of  bells 
From  very  far  away. 

They  are  no  echoings  that  float 
From  his  own  village  on  the  sands  ; 
Ten  fathom  deep  beneath  his  boat 
That  ghostly  belfry  stands  ; 

And  well  he  knows,  if  he  looked  down, 
He  still  might  see  revealed  again 
Dim  churches  of  a  ghostly  town, 

And  walls,  and  homes,  and  men. 

He  listens  till  the  noon  is  passed  ; 
Then  dreamily  draws  in  the  lines, 
And,  as  the  south  wind  slopes  the  mast, 
Steers  where  his  cottage  shines. 

But  all  the  week  on  Penmaen  bay 
For  him  the  music  does  not  cease, 
And  in  his  heart  he  bears  all  day 
That  sound  of  far-off  peace. 


ST.   JOHN   OF   AMIENS  39 

ST.    JOHN    OF    AMIENS 

IN  the  fair  church  of  Amiens 
There  lies  the  relic  of  St.  John  ; 
Some  say  it  is  the  skull  of  him 
Beheaded,  as  the  Gospels  tell, 
By  Herod  for  a  woman's  whim, 
What  time  her  daughter  danced  so  well. 
(St.  John  the  Baptist,  ever  blest, 
Bring  me  to  his  eternal  rest.) 


But  some  adore  it  as  the  head 
Of  John  Divine,  the  same  who  said, 
"  My  little  children,  love  each  other," 
And  lay  upon  Lord  Jesu's  heart, 
And  took  in  trust  the  Blessed  Mother, 
Till  she  in  glory  did  depart. 

(St.  John  Divine,  the  son  of  love, 
Preserve  me  to  his  peace  above.) 


For  John  the  Baptist's  head,  they  say, 
Was  broken  up  in  Julian's  day  ; 
One  bit  is  in  Samaria's  town, 
And  two  beneath  Byzantium's  dome, 
And  Genoa  has  half  the  crown, 
The  nose  and  forehead  rest  in  Rome. 
(St.  John  the  Baptist's  scattered  dust 
Bring  me  to  kingdoms  of  the  just.) 


40  LINES   OF   LIFE 

And  there  are  others  say  again 
St.  John  Divine  escaped  the  pain 
Of  death's  last  conflict,  for  he  lies 
Still  sleeping  in  his  bishopric 
Of  Ephesus,  until  his  eyes 
Shall  ope  to  judgment  with  the  quick. 
(St.  John  Divine,  who  sleeps  so  fast, 
Wake  me  to  paradise  at  last.) 


For  me,  a  poor  unwitting  man, 
I  pray  and  worship  all  I  can  ; 
Sure  that  the  blessed  souls  in  heaven 
Will  not  be  jealous  of  each  other, 
And  the  mistake  will  be  forgiven 
If  for  one  saint  I  love  his  brother. 
(St.  John  Divine  and  Baptist  too 
Stand  at  each  side  whate'er  I  do. 


And  so  that  dubious  mystery 
Which  of  the  twain  those  relics  be, 
I  leave  to  God  ;   He  knows,  I  wis  ; 
How  should  a  thing  like  me  decide  ? 
And  whosesoever  skull  it  is, 
St.  John,  I  trow,  is  satisfied. 

(May  God,  who  reads  all  hearts  aright, 
Admit  my  blindness  to  his  sight.) 


PRAYER 
PRAYER 

WHAT  profit  in  a  prayer  for  grace 
From  such  a  heart  as  mine — 
A  prayer  for  you,  who  in  your  place 
Are  like  a  star  divine  : — 

Are  like  a  star  that  ever  moves 
Mid  choiring  spheres  of  light, 

And  I  the  obscure  bird  that  loves 
The  star-illumined  night  ? 

Yet  once  I  watched,  where  in  the  «hade 

Of  a  dim  church  she  stole, 
A  drunken  prostitute  who  prayed, 

And  prayed  for  Newman's  soul. 


THE    PICTURESQUE 

THE  Abbey  Hall  is  fair  to  see, 
With  lawns  the  smoothest  ever  trod, 
And  many  a  quaint  exotic  tree 
Encompassing  the  house  of  God. 

A  few  old  arches,  open  still 

At  certain  hours  throughout  the  week, 
Where  antiquaries  gaze  their  fill, 

And  amorous  pairs  play  hide-and-seek. 


42  LINES   OF    LIFE 

At  luncheon  in  the  aisle  they  sit, 
The  painter  sets  his  painting  desk  ; 

No  place  in  all  the  shire  so  fit 
For  picnics  and  the  picturesque. 

O  home  of  God,  of  God  bereft — 
O  modern  virtue's  counterpart — 

Sleek  ruins  of  a  conscience  left 

To  grace  the  pleasaunce  of  a  heart. 


A    HOLIDAY 

UP  from  a  radiant  valley  went  the  way 
Running  between  the  vines  and  walnut  trees, 
And  crossed  low  Alps  where  peasants  raked  the  hay, 
And  cow-bells  tinkled  on  the  laughing  breeze, 

And  joyful  children  shouted  as  they  sped 
Grass-laden  sledges  down,  till  all  the  air 
Resounded  joy,  and  mountains  overhead 
Seemed  in  our  human  mirthfulness  to  share. 

But  suddenly  I  climbed  whence  I  could  see 

An  ocean  haze  revealing  tremulously 

Where  lies  the  path  to  England.     Then  for  me 

It  seemed  as  when,  submerged  in  common  life, 
Some  man  goes  cheerily  on  from  year  to  year, 
Peace  in  his  breast  unsanctified  by  strife, 
And  placid  ease  unchastened  by  a  fear  ; 


A   HOLIDAY  43 

Till  as  he  passes  down  a  village  street, 

A  Sabbath  bell  tolls  with  persistence  dim, 

He  hears  the  shuffle  of  church-going  feet, 

And  from  the  door  drones  out  the  dismal  hymn  ; 


Where  then  is  peace  ?     The  dull  repeated  strain 
Wakes  the  old  serpent  of  a  nobler  pain, 
And  stirs  a  trouble  at  the  heart  again. 


ABROAD 

IT'S  beautiful,  no  doubt  : — the  blue 
Hangs  arched  in  one  unchanging  hue 
Above  the  whitewashed  little  town 
Through  which  the  glacier  stream  pours  down 
One  turbid  gush  of  white  and  green 
In  savage  eagerness,  between 
Those  black,  undeviating  lines 
Of  precipice  and  fringing  pines 
Mute  as  a  funeral  ;  and  the  land 
Flings  out,  like  some  too  careless  hand, 
Fat  gourds,  and  solemn  shafts  of  maize, 
And  vines  about  the  garden  ways, 
Where  sit,  along  the  shady  side, 
Tall,  dusky  women,  onyx-eyed, 
Each  like  her  neighbour,  with  a  look 
Unvaried,  just  as  though  they  took 
Their  nature  from  the  constant  stare 


44  LINES   OF    LIFE 

Of  brazen  mid-day  and  the  glare 
Of  the  snow-peaks  above  them. 

Where 

May  be  the  vision  delicate 
Which  with  remembrance  passionate 
Hangs  like  a  phantom  in  between, 
And  blurs  with  mist  that  sunlit  scene  ? 
It  is  a  mountain  none  so  high 
But  the  sheep  love  it,  and  the  sky 
Comes  down  to  it  in  tender  cloud 
Almost  too  fugitive  to  shroud 
The  changeful  pools  and  boulders  grey 
Scattered  beside  the  untrammeled  way 
Which,  like  the  smile  upon  a  face, 
Moves  in  and  out  the  mountain's  base 
From  wooded  lowlands  come,  to  guide 
Dwellers  upon  the  forest  side 
From  village  heart  to  heart,  across 
That  windy  moor  of  soaking  moss 
And  heather,  where  the  curlews  cry, 
And  plovers  at  the  passer-by 
Hum  with  strained  wings,  or  when  the  fox 
Steals  like  a  ghost  between  the  rocks 
Along  the  shadowy  watershed, 
Whence  flow  the  diverse  murmurings,  fed 
By  tendril  streams  of  peaty  brown  ; 
As  when  the  wilding  hair  drops  down 
About  those  changeful  pools,  the  eyes 
Which  take  the  moods  of  northern  skies, 
Sweet  with  the  promise  of  surprise. 


IN   CENTRAL   AFRICA  45 

IN    CENTRAL    AFRICA 

DARK  in  its  channel  which  the  grasses  hide, 
With   living   speed    through    marsh    and    desert 

flowing, 

Thirty  feet  deep  its  waters  curl  and  slide, 
Almost  without  a  whisper  going. 

Quiet  things  come  and  lap  it  with  soft  tongue, 
Footstep  by  footstep  through  the  silence  creeping, 

And  starry  leopards  shine  its  reeds  among, 
When  all  but  they  and  stars  are  sleeping. 

It  has  no  name  among  the  streams  of  earth, 
No  proud  explorer  has  its  bearings  given  ; 

Only  the  sun  and  moon  watched  at  its  birth, 
And  it  has  sucked  the  breasts  of  heaven. 

In  peace  assured,  these  perilous  lands  between, 
It  will  its  waters  to  some  deep  deliver  ; 

And  had  I  been  what  I  too  might  have  been, 
Then  had  my  peace  been  like  a  river. 

A    GERMAN    WINTER 

ON  leagues  of  solid  land  the  snow  lies  deep, 
The  snow  falls  crumbling  from  the  leaden  sky  ; 
All  but  the  fir  is  white  ;    with  timorous  eye 
Strange  little  birds  in  at  the  window  peep, 

4 


46  LINES  OF   LIFE 

From  frozen  forests  come  ;    black  rivers  creep, 
Shrunk  with  the  cold  till  half  their  bed  is  dry, 
Along  the  ice-hung  ozier  reeds,  and  by 
The  wooden  villages  with  gables  steep, 
Huddled  around  their  spires. 

Oh,  far  away 

A  purple  mountain  rises  from  the  sand, 
The  golden  sand  beneath  the  golden  day  ; 
Down  the  bright  steep  the  waterfall  plunges  free 
From  ledge  to  radiant  ledge,  and  on  the  strand 
Sounds  the  long  murmur  of  the  eternal  sea  ! 


PILGRIM'S    SONG 

IN  days  when  old  Crusaders 
Rode  to  the  Holy  War, 
For  every  pilgrim  sinner 

They  counted  one  saint  more  ; 
They  counted  one  saint  more, 

For  they  wrapped  his  body  round 
In  the  shirt  that  went  to  Zion 
When  they  laid  him  under  ground. 


I  too  have  been  a  pilgrim 

Beneath  a  holy  sky, 
And  that's  how  I'll  be  buried 

Whene'er  I  come  to  die  ; 


PILGRIM'S   SONG  47 

Whene'er  I  come  to  die 

And  pilgrimages  cease, 
Oh,  bury  my  pilgrim  body 

In  the  shirt  that  went  to  Greece  ! 

I  stood  beside  the  columns 

Of  Athene's  ruined  shrine  ; 
And  looked  from  far  at  Sparta, 

And  drank  the  resined  wine  ; 
And  drank  the  resined  wine, 

And  heard  the  Goat-god  speak, 
Where  the  asphodel  was  growing 

And  the  mother-tongue  was  Greek. 

Dear  land,  my  more  than  mother, 

Receive  me  to  my  home  ! 
Count  me  among  thy  children, 

Though  late  in  time  I  come  ; 
Though  late  in  time  I  come, 

Give  me  thy  children's  peace 
When  like  a  saint  I'm  buried 

In  the  shirt  that  went  to  Greece. 


BLAGOVESCHENSK :    1900 

H,  do  not  slay  us,  Christians  dear  ! 

What  evil  have  we  done  ? 
Poor  Chinamen  !     In  mercy  hear  ! " 
They  drove  them  on. 


48  LINES   OF   LIFE 

"  Listen  in  pity  !     Let  us  be 

Friends  as  we  were  before  ! 
You  ate  our  rice,  you  drank  our  tea  !  " 

They  reached  the  shore. 

"  Oh,  swift  the  river  runs  !     Oh,  deep  ! 

See  where  the  whirlpools  spin  ! 
The  bank  how  slippery,  and  how  steep  !  " 

They  drove  them  in. 

"  For  all  our  lives  we'll  be  your  slaves 

To  toil  in  field  and  town. 
Ourselves,  our  all  to  the  man  who  saves  !  " 

They  flung  them  down. 

"  A  boat  !    a  thousand  boats  !    a  boat  ! 

Six  thousand  souls  are  we  ! 
Look  where  the  drowning  women  float  !  " 

They  stood  to  see. 

"We'll  worship  Christ,  and  Jesus  too, 

And  upon  Mary  call  ! 
We'll  all  be  Christians  just  like  you  ! " 

They  drowned  them  all. 

HOME,    SWEET    HOME 

SWIFTLY  in  Africa  the  twilight  came 
To  rocks  and  wildernesses  lone, 
Grey  mists  from  lakes  without  a  name 
Crept  over  hills  unknown. 


HOME,   SWEET    HOME  49 

The  march  was  done,  the  camp  was  set, 
The  fire  was  blazing  from  the  ground, 

The  slaver  and  the  merchant  met 
Among  the  goods  around. 

They  bargained  with  adjustment  nice, 

Holding  commercial  balance  true  ; 
A  man  or  woman  ?    what  the  price 

Gave  each  the  profit  due  ? 

They  shared  their  bread  and  wine  and  meat, 
They  smoked  their  Portuguese  cigars, 

And  opposite,  with  feet  to  feet, 
They  sang  to  the  gay  guitars. 

They  sang  of  a  city  far  away, 

A  river  port,  a  castled  wall, 
A  crowded  square  at  the  cool  of  day — 

Ah,  that  was  in  Portugal  ! 

They  sang  of  the  dance  in  a  summer  night, 
And  marble  courts,  and  acacia  trees  ; 

They  yearned  in  singing  with  sad  delight 
For  a  city  beyond  the  seas. 

They  ended,  and  through  the  forest  wide 
The  music  passed  in  lessening  waves  ; 

Rousing  himself,  the  slaver  cried, 
"  Here  !  shackle  up  the  slaves  ! 


50  LINES   OF   LIFE 

"  Turn  out  the  dogs,  watch  all  the  hills, 
Have  whips  and  rifles  ready  !     Come, 

Ten  dollars  to  the  man  who  kills 
A  slave  that  runs  for  home  ! " 


A    BALLADE    OF    TIME 

"  Where  is  the  Life  that  late  I  led  r " 

—Henry  IV,   Part  II,  Act  V,  Scene  3. 

THEY  come  not  now  that  came  before — 
Evening  of  spring,  and  blossom  white, 
The  footstep  hushed,  the  whispering  door, 

The  thin  form  glimmering  into  sight, 
The  moon  half-seen  in  clouded  night, 

One  star,  and  wind,  and  passing  rain, 
The  smell  of  lilacs  in  the  lane  ; 

Where  is  the  foot,  the  lovely  head, 
My  moon  that  never  was  to  wane  ? 

Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led  ? 

Tossed  by  the  sea  from  shore  to  shore, 

Wheeled  to  the  battle's  left  and  right  ; 
In  wreck  of  storm,  in  wreck  of  war, 

In  tides  that  clashed,  and  clashing  fight, 
When  the  deep  guns  out-boomed  the  might 

Of  the  deep-booming  hurricane, 
And  like  the  shriek  of  ropes  astrain, 

The  wind  wailed  with  the  death  that  sped 
Sheer  through  the  battery's  galloping  train — 

Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led  ? 


A   BALLADE   OF   TIME  51 

They  come  not  now,  they  come  no  more, 

The  thoughts  that  sprang  with  daily  light, 
As  gems  upon  an  enchanted  floor, 

Matching  the  sun  in  promise  bright  ; 
Even  sorrow,  too,  has  taken  flight — 

Sorrow  and  consecrating  pain — 
And  rage  comes  never  here  again, 

Pleasure  and  grief  alike  are  dead  ; 
What  fear  can  move  ?     What  hopes  remain  ? 

Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led  ? 

ENVOI. 

So  should  a  man  recall  in  vain 

The  dreams  of  a  scarce-wakened  brain, 

Forgotten  e'er  the  sleep  is  fled, 

And  buried  down  in  Time's  inane, 

Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led. 


THE    SIREN 

ACROSS  the  fog,  across  the  rain, 
On  glimmering  London  pavements  falling, 
I  hear  the  voice,  again,  again — 
A  voice  that  is  calling,  calling. 

It  calls  me  where  the  rivers  run 

Through  forest  gloom  unbroken  ever  ; 

And  the  steamer's  mast  to  the  mid-day  sun 
Is  shadowless  on  the  river. 


52  LINES   OF   LIFE 

"  You  know,"  it  cries,  "  how  mornings  rise 
In  smoke  from  untrodden  islands  streaming, 

And  long  waves  roll  from  a  southern  pole, 
And  southern  stars  are  gleaming. 

"  Remember  where  the  desert  lay- 
Purple  desert  beside  the  sea — 

And  barren  mountains  round  a  bay, 
And  a  storm-crowned  promontory  ; 

"  And  how  the  midnight  draws  her  breath 
As  the  sleeping  sun  returns  on  high, 

And  pallid  water  sleeps  beneath 
A  pallid  dome  of  sky. 

"Ah  !  leave  the  crowd  that  howls  below 
Crowding  houses  on  either  hand. 

The  streets  are  wide  by  which  I  go 
To  a  wide  and  silent  land  ; 

"  By  a  silent  road  I'll  bear  you  home." 

From  London  dock  the  siren's  calling, 
"  Come  to  the  seas,  to  the  desert  come  ! " 
And  I  lie  enchained  in  a  London  room — 
And  the  rain  is  falling,  falling. 

AFFATIM    EDI,    BIBI,    LUSI 

I    DO  not  greatly  care  what  may  befall 
My  soul  when  it  shall  fade  in  air  ; 
Whether  it  live,  or  live  no  more  at  all, 
I  do  not  care. 


AFFATIM   EDI,   BIBI,   LUSI          53 

Poor,  pallid,  gentle,  wandering,  bloodless  thing, 

That  shivers  naked  out  of  sight  ! 
A  moth,  a  lonely  seabird  on  the  wing 
Has  more  delight. 


But  for  my  body,  what  shall  come  of  it — 

Dear  host  and  comrade  of  the  soul — 
I  do  deplore  the  destiny  unfit, 
That  graveyard  hole. 

Oh,  the  broad  chest  that  broke  the  swollen  wave, 

The  feet  that  were  so  swift  to  run, 
The  eyes  that  threw  a  light  so  glad  and  brave 
Back  to  the  sun, 

And  limbs  that  learnt  of  love  his  utmost  worth, 

And  burning  heart  that  loved  so  true  ! 
Sweet  earth,  have  pity  on  a  little  earth 
That  pitied  you  ! 


THE    HAUNTED    SPRING:    1915 

A  TROUBLE  shakes  the  rays  of  dying  light, 
The  troubled  earth,  tremulous  between  her  poles, 
Like  a  lost  angel  through  the  forsaken  height 
Of  heaven  calling,  down  her  sad  orbit  rolls, 
And  human  hearts,  unresting  day  or  night, 
Vibrate  to  passing  souls  ; — 


54  LINES   OF   LIFE 

To  dying  souls,  to  souls  that  pass  in  pain, 
Or  with  one  crash  are  scattered  on  the  air 

To  souls  that,  lightening  over  hill  and  plain, 
Strike  at  our  spirit's  portal  unaware, 

And,  crying  for  response,  again,  again, 
Hold  dim  communion  there. 


Vainly  we  seek  the  life  that  once  we  led, 
Pursue  the  toil,  walk  the  familiar  street  ; 

A  ghostly  movement  stirs  around  our  head, 
And  in  our  blood  those  failing  pulses  beat ; 

Hid  in  the  covert  of  the  accustomed  bed, 
We  hear  the  noiseless  feet. 


Could  but  a  mountain  wilderness  provide 
Some  silent  cavern  of  tranquillity  ! 

Could  but  an  undiscovered  ocean's  tide 
Murmur  of  peace  to  such  as  thither  flee  ! 

No  silence  comforts  now  the  mountain  side, 
No  peace  the  untravelled  sea. 


No  peace,  no  silence,  no  delight  of  spring, 

No  joy  supportable,  even  if  it  came  ! 
Flesh  of  our  flesh,  their  souls  go  wandering 

— Young  souls,  who  took  death's  hazard  as  a  game, 
Our  common  men,  like  us  in  everything, 

In  sin,  in  hope,  the  same. 


THE   HAUNTED   SPRING:    1915     55 

Winds  of  the  sky  upon  their  faces  blew, 

They  heard  the  voice  of  spring  across  the  guns, 

They  touched  the  emerging  stream,  but  never  knew 
How  in  full  strength  dear  life's  great  river  runs  : — 

Would  God,  would  God  that  we  had  died  for  you, 
Our  sons,  our  lovely  sons  ! 


AN    ANCIENT    BATTLEFIELD 

ONCE  more  the  cricket  wakes  to  sing, 
And  bats  come  fluttering  out, 
The  owl  upon  a  noiseless  wing 
Like  a  shadow  swoops  about, 
And  the  late  shepherd  guides  his  flock 
With  slowly  dying  shout. 

The  withered  branch  is  black  and  still 

Against  the  sunset  light  ; 
Only  the  road  from  hill  to  hill 

Runs  as  a  line  of  white  ; 
Far  off  a  solitary  bell 

Hallows  the  coming  night. 

The  night  which  brings  the  evening  star, 

And  puts  the  world  to  bed, 
Indifferently  as  when  the  war 

Ceased  at  her  ghostly  tread, 
And  dying  soldiers  watched  the  moon 

Shining  upon  the  dead. 


56  LINES  OF   LIFE 

Who  piled  together  now  are  laid 
Where  earth  and  crumbling  stone 

Fill  up  the  piteous  mouths  that  made 
To  the  sweet  night  their  moan  ; 

And  uniforms  hang  loose  around 
Their  shrunken  lengths  of  bone. 

Oh,  rest  at  last  like  soldiers  brave 

In  the  forgotten  past  ! 
A  soldier  marches  o'er  your  grave 

Under  the  stars  so  fast  ; 
A  soldier  marches  through  the  night, 

And  he  shall  rest  at  last. 


THE    FOOL    IN    GOD 

I    LIKE  the  world  when  God  goes  mad, 
And  splashes  paint  about  the  sky 

In  some  wild  sunset  foolery  ; 
Or  has  a  sudden  silly  fad 
In  spring,  and  takes  a  grassy  bank 

And  scatters  primroses,  and  plays 

Once  more  at  making  Milky  Ways 
With  grass  for  sky  ;    or  for  a  prank 
Builds  a  great  castle  out  of  cloud, 

And  smashes  it  before  it's  done — 
I'm  glad  he's  not  too  old  and'  proud 

For  toys  and  games  and  foolish  fun  ; 
I  like  him  best  for  his  immense 
And  total  lack  of  common-sense. 
("  The  Nation,"  Sept.  i,  1917.)  W.  N.  EWER. 


THE    FOOL   IN   MAN  57 

THE    FOOL    IN    MAN 

(With  apologies  tt  the  foregoing.) 

I    HATE  the  world  when  man  goes  mad, 
And  splashes  blood  on  earth  and  sky 

In  some  crazed  battle's  devilry  ; 
Or  has  a  sudden  silly  fad 
In  spring,  and  takes  a  grassy  bank, 

And  scatters  corpses  there,  and  plays 

Once  more  in  foul,  barbaric  ways 
With  lives  for  sport  ;    or  for  a  prank 
Builds  gorgeous  cities  by  the  crowd, 

And  smashes  them  before  they're  done — 
I  hate  to  think  he's  not  too  proud 

For  murderous  toys  of  sword  and  gun  : 
I  hate  him  most  for  his  immense 
And  total  lack  of  common-sense. 

("The  Natitn,"  Sept.  8,  1917.) 

WOUNDED 

MY   shirt   is   warm   with   blood — warm,   brown, 
and  red  ; 

Here  at  the  pocket  hangs  a  pinkish  gout 
Shaking  like  jelly  ;  from  my  battered  head 
The  sticky  stream  drips  to  my  very  eyes, 
And  with  each  drop  my  life  is  running  out  ; 
My  life,  my  only  life  is  shed 
With  every  drop,  and  gradually  dies  ! 
But  one  touch  more,  one  little  touch — no  doubt 
I'd  be  already  dead. 


58  LINES  OF   LIFE 

I  should  lie  dead  upon  the  ground,  and  be 
Stinking  and  withering  to  the  sun  and  rain, 
All  common  functions  of  my  body  still 
As  engines  silted  in  the  depth  of  sea  ; 
No  sleep,  no  waking,  neither  ease  nor  pain, 
Hunger  nor  food,  nor  thirst  nor  splendid  wine  ; 
But  quick  corruption  shrinking  me  up,  until 
This  moving  heart  should  in  the  dust  combine 
With  thighs  and  feet  and  finger-bones  to  fill 
Scarcely  a  bulge  in  the  uniform  again. 


What  if  I  never  see  a  summer  sun 

Rise  slowly  glimmering  on  the  empurpled  night, 

And  glory  through  the  heaven's  wide  marching-ground, 

Till  all  the  golden  hours  are  done, 
And  o'er  the  empurpled  hills  one  star  stands  white 
In  a  green  sky,  and  then  all  other  stars 
Leap  singly  from  their  homes,  above  a  sea 
Which  heaves  in  white  and  purple  lines  around 
Great  ships  with  furling  sails  and  the  entanglement  of 
spars  ! 

Shall  I  not  sail  a  ship  again,  nor  feel 

The  rudder  leaping  in  my  hand 
Like  a  big  fish,  nor  hear  deep  waters  slide 
Hissing  in  foam  against  the  slanted  keel, 
Nor  watch  the  jagged  horizon  show  a  land 

Grey  with  the  rain  and  cloud, 
Nor  when  the  moaning  winds  are  loud, 


WOUNDED 

Up  through  the  storm  exultant  ride, 

Bearing  great  orders,  climb  the  mountain  side, 

Cross  the  dim  watershed  of  plunging  snow, 

And  see  an  army's  braziers  sparkling  far  below  ? 

Bleeding  I  lie,  but  all  myself  is  whole  ; 
These  interwoven  threads  of  heart  and  brain, 
All  vital  apparatus  of  the  soul, 
Electric  nerves  and  thought-secreting  stuff, 
Visible  chords  charged  with  invisible  life — 
All  would  fulfil  their  purpose,  and  again 
Pursue  the  wonted  ways  of  peace  or  strife  ; 
They  would  proceed  ;    they  rest  complete  enough 
To  labour  daily,  converse  with  a  friend, 
Hate  the  dull  enemy,  suffer  all  the  pain 
Of  old  creation  travailing  for  an  unknown  end, 
Face  crowding  fools,  and  stand  untouched  by  awe 
For  all  the  threatening  powers  of  mortal  law, 
Big  with  established  vengeance  ;    so  to  stand 
At  perilous  crossways  for  dear  honour's  sake, 
Unwilling  and  unfrighted  ;    so  to  take 
Life  and  possessions,  each  in  either  hand, 
And  both  hands  open. 

All  those  instruments, 
Framed  for  activities,  will  wait  a  day — 
Two  or  three  days — expectant  ;    like  the  men 
Marshalled  for  service  in  well-ordered  tents, 
Who  wait  to  hear  their  leader's  voice  again, 
But  he  comes  not,  being  killed  upon  the  way. 


59 


60  LINES   OF   LIFE 

Oh,  powers  unknown,  untested,  unfulfilled  ! 

I  could  have  led  the  assault  o'er  open  ground, 

Held  the  platoon  unflinching  ;    could  have  drilled 

Battalions  up  to  sharp  perfection's  edge 

For  a  soldier's  triumph  ;    wandering  could  have  found 

Strange  lands  untraversed,  crawled  on  the  icy  ledge 

Of  undiscovered  mountains,  hewn  the  ways 

Through  swamps  of  steaming,  twilit  forest,  deep 

In  black  ooze  to  my  middle  ;    could  have  known 

Causes  of  things,  the  measured  laws  which  keep 

All  stars  in  station,  why  solemn  music  sways 

Hearts  like  a  lake  of  osiers,  why  alone 

Mankind  of  all  his  kindred  beasts  desip 

To  pierce  beyond  the  world's  encircling  fires, 

Far  out  to  unimagined  regions  sweep, 

And  on  the  beatific  vision  gaze 

Where  dwells  a  Presence  on  a  great  white  throne. 


My  shirt  is  warm  with  blood — warm,  brown,  and  red 
My  life,  my  only  life  is  shed 
With  every  drop,  and  gradually  dies. 


Oh  not  to  die,  not  die  before  I  see 
Once  more  that  lovely,  fearless  head, 
And  feel  the  rebellious  heart  confronting  me, 
And  know  the  miracle  of  the  sudden  smile, 
And  live  the  immortal  life  of  moments,  while 
I  learn  the  revelation  of  the  ethereal  eyes  ! 


EPIMENIDES   THE   CRETAN        61 
EPIMENIDES    THE    CRETAN 

THERE  was  a  city  once  as  sick  as  ours  ; 
Restless  she  lay  upon  her  sea- washed  throne, 
Surmising  evils  ;    for  the  gods  were  gone, 
Their  white  homes  shut  ;    no  victim  gay  with  flowers 
Gladdened  her  altars,  but  on  all  the  towers 
Vague  terror  sat,  and  women  made  their  moan 
From  street  to  street,  foreboding  ;    save  alone 
Where  he  who  knew  the  mind  of  heavenly  powers 
Implored  Apollo. 

But  what  Cretan  old 
Shall  teach  the  lustral  rite,  and  purify 
Our  city's  slough,  where  pleasure  coils  with  hate 
And  hunger  watches  ?     Who  shall  be  so  bold 
As  raise  the  healing  prayer  before  she  die  ? 
And  to  what  god  shall  she  be  dedicate  ? 

THE    RETURN    OF    ALCESTIS 

DRAMATIS   PERSONS: 

KING  ADMETUS  (to  whom  Apollo  had  granted  the  unusual 
privilege  of  escaping  death  if  he  could  find  some  one  to 
die  for  him.  Whereupon  he  went  round  to  all  his 
friends  and  relations,  requesting  this  personal  favour 
from  each  in  turn,  but  found  no  one  willing  to  consider 
the  proposal  except  his  wife,  from  whom  he  gratefully 
accepted  the  required  exchange.) 

PHERES,  father  of  Admetus. 

ALCESTIS,  wife  of  Admetus  (rescued  by  Heracles  from  death, 
and  brought  back  disguised  as  a  woman  he  had  won  in  a 
boxing-match  together  with  a  herd  of  oxen). 

5 


62  LINES   OF   LIFE 

HERACLES  (who,  having  saved  Alccstis  in  passing,  is  now 
continuing  his  journey  to  capture  the  man-eating 
horses  of  the  Thracian  monster,  Diomede). 

CHORUS  (elderly  gentlemen,  representing  the  public  opinion  of 
Phera:). 

SCENE,  the  terrace  berore  the  palace  at  Pherse  in  Thessaly. 
Admetus  sits  at  one  end  of  a  breakfast  table,  with 
Heracles  and  Pheres  on  either  hand.  Alcestis  with  her 
two  children  sits  at  the  other  end.  The  Chorus  stands 
on  the  palace  steps,  contemplating  the  family  circle 
with  benevolent  satisfaction. 

TIME,  early  morning  on  the  fourth  day  after  the  rescue  of 
Alcestis,  whom  divine  decree  had  forbidden  to  speak  for 
three  days  since  her  death  and  resurrection. 

A    DMETUS.     O    men   of   Pherae,  in    good    hour 
-1\.     you  come, 

And  with  good  cheer  I  welcome  to  my  home 
Such  friends  and  subjects — now  a  home  indeed  ! 
For  to  perfect  a  home  what  greater  need 
Than  the  loved  presence  of  a  loving  wife  ? 
And  what  more  loving  than  to  give  one's  life 
For  him  one  loves  to  adoration  ?     Pray 
You  join  with  us  to  celebrate  this  day 
With  wine  and  feasting,  since  'tis  far  from  common 
For  mortal  man  to  own  the  Perfect  Woman. 

(He  raises  his  glass  as  for  a   toast,  looking  fondly 
across  the  table  at  Alcestis.} 

CHORUS  (raising  their  right  arms  in  acclamation) 
The  Perfect  Woman,  paragon  of  her  sex  ! 
The  Perfect  Wife,  whom  wifely  virtue  decks  ! 
In  this  her  deed  let  all  our  womankind 
Behold  the  model  for  the  female  mind  ! 


THE   RETURN   OF   ALCESTIS       63 

PHERES.     My  son,  a  single  word  I  first  must  say 
To  smooth  our  difference  of  that  other  day  : 
'Tis  true,  I  would  not  die  for  you,  although 
Short  is  the  course  my  life  has  yet  to  flow  ; 
But  in  old  age  life  craves  the  greater  care, 
Just  as  we  treasure  gold  the  more  'tis  rare  ; 
For  aged  eyes  'tis  sweet  to  see  the  light 
Faint  glimmering  still  before  'tis  whelmed  in  night  : 
Whom  the  gods  love  die  young  ;   so  let  them  die, 
Leaving  to  elders  risk  of  gods'  enmity. 
Fate  bade  you  die,  and  there  is  no  denying 
'Twas  best  for  you  yourself  to  do  your  dying  ; 
I  never  heard  that  civil  law  demands 
Old  men  be  slain,  save  in  barbaric  lands. 
Yet  was  Alcestis'  act  a  great  relief 
To  me  and  to  your  mother.     So,  in  brief, 
Let  bygones  be.     Long  may  Admetus  reign  ! 
Long  live  his  queen,  to  die  for  him  again  ! 

CHORUS.     No  more  of  dying  !     Her  example  lives, 
A  duteous  lesson  for  all  future  wives. 
Timorous  is  woman,  yet  at  need  she  can 
Assume  the  fearless  attributes  of  man. 
But  now  to  fearless  man  and  god  in  one 
We  turn  our  praises — great  Alcmena's  son, 
Who  from  the  clutch  of  Death  himself  could  save, 
And  snatched  the  exception  from  the  common  grave  ! 

HERACLES.     Oh  well  !     I'm  grateful  for  a  jolly  time, 
Plenty  to  eat  and  drink.     My  word  !     It's  prime 


64  LINES   OF    LIFE 

To  sleep  at  peace  in  bedclothes,  then  to  wake 

With  joints  and  roots  just  tempting  you  to  take 

Your  bellyful  at  leisure  !     Sweet  to  drain 

Long  cups  and  know  they'll  fill  themselves  again  ! 

For  this  I  thank  Admetus,  courteous  host, 

Who  put  me  up,  nor  told  about  the  ghost 

Still  lingering  close  upon  the  threshold  here, 

Turning  a  mother's  eyes  to  the  children  dear. 

Lucky  I  caught  old  Death  upon  the  road, 

And  gave  him  one,  the  melancholy  toad, 

That  spun  him  round  !     Then,  Oh,  the  sport  to  see 

Admetus  jump  as  the  lady's  veil  fell  free  ! 

But  now  a  labour  knocks  upon  my  heart, 

And  before  pleasure  ends,  I  had  best  depart. 

Farewell,  domestic  joys  !     I  seek  my  way 

To  bridle  horses,  champing  men  for  hay. 


CHORUS.     What  is  more  soothing  than  to  sit  at  ease 
And  hear  resounding  deeds  on  distant  seas 
Or  distant  lands,  and  picture,  were  we  there, 
Ourselves  engaged  upon  adventures  rare  ? 


ADMETUS.      Beneficent  guest,  one  further  moment 

stay, 

Await  the  consummation  of  a  day 
Bright  through  your  presence.     Now  that  three  nights 

are  passed, 
Alcestis  from  her  silence  speaks  at  last. 


THE   RETURN   OF   ALCESTIS       65 

CHORUS.     O  silent  lady,  it  is  hard  to  teach 
A  woman  silence,  but  from  you  'tis  speech 
That's  now  demanded,  nor  can  you  speak  too  long 
In  demonstrating  wifely  virtue  strong. 

ALCESTIS.     Admetus,  Heracles,  and  you,  my  friends, 
New  life  begins  each  day,  and  daily  ends, 
For  mortal  things  are  mortal,  even  love. 
But  now  to-day,  all  common  days  above, 
I  feel  new  life  beginning.     It  were  strange 
If  otherwise,  for  great  must  be  the  change 
From  death  to  living  when  a  woman  dies 
And  next  returns  with  bullocks  as  a  prize — 
So  thought  my  husband — won  in  a  boxing  bout. 
And  there  is  much  that  dying  searches  out, 
Since  death  exposes  many  depths  of  heart, 
And  fear  of  death  plays  well  the  explorer's  part. 
For  me  and  that  my  so-called  sacrifice, 
Waste  not  excessive  praise  upon  the  price 
I  gave  in  thus  exchanging  life  for  life, 
Nor  hail  me  model  of  devoted  wife. 
To  leave  this  house,  was  that  so  great  a  thing 
When  he  whom  once  I  loved  would  always  cling 
About  my  knees,  imploring  me  to  die 
And  spare  his  dying  ?     Was  it  so  much  that  I 
Should  sicken  of  the  world  when  even  he 
Who  is  mingled  in  my  children,  knelt  to  me 
And  poured  his  whining  supplications  out  ? 
Oh,  when  at  last  I  yielded,  then,  no  doubt, 
He  called  the  gods  to  witness  how  he'd  give 


66  LINES   OF   LIFE 

His  life  and  welcome,  so  that  I  should  live  ! 
He  feared  no  Hell  !     He  feared  no  Pluto's  hound  ! 
Kissing  my  feet,  he  squirmed  upon  the  ground, 
With  tears  entreating  I  should  not  desert 
Him  and  his  household,  for  he  hated  dirt 
And  dust  upon  the  floors  and  furniture  ! 
Aye,  and  he  took  an  oath  in  compact  sure — 
Oath  hard  indeed  for  mortal  man  to  keep  ! — 
He'd  love  no  second  in  my  bed,  but  sleep 
Beside  my  statue,  wrought  by  a  sculptor's  skill 
— Cold  comfort  !     But  the  grave  is  colder  still. 

CHORUS.     Cease  from  reproaches,  lady,  lest  you  break 
The  peace  of  happy  circles  !     For  our  sake, 
Cast  not  on  one  the  common  fault  of  man  ! 
A  mortal  being  does  what  mortals  can. 
Noblest  of  womankind  in  you  we  praise  ; 
Forsake  not,  then,  the  grace  of  woman's  ways. 

ALCESTIS.     'Tis  true  'tis  common,  nor  has  a  woman 

right 

To  hope  for  husband  raised  above  the  height 
Of  commonplaces.     Hardly  was  I  dead, 
He  set  about  the  mourning,  shaved  each  head, 
Had  manes  of  horses  clipt — the  accustomed  show 
Of  outward  grief,  that  citizens  might  know 
How  he  lamented  for  his  victim's  dear 
Vicarious  sacrifice,  hoping  thus  to  clear 
His  own  repute,  lest  in  the  gossiping  town 


THE  RETURN   OF   ALCESTIS       67 

Some  whisper  ran,  contrasting  up  and  down 
This  woman's  courage  with  their  King's  escape. 

CHORUS.     Your  fancy,  queen,  assumes  a  monstrous 

shape  ! 

No  citizen  could  dream  so  vile  a  thing 
As  hint  an  error  in  our  gracious  King. 

ALCESTIS.     Had  it  been  mine — alas,  I  see  it  now  ! — 
Had  it  been  mine  to  fulfil  the  appointed  vow 
Unasked,  to  cling  about  his  neck,  and  cry, 
"  Dear  love,  I  love  you  so,  what  is  it  to  die 
For  my  beloved  ?     What  grief  can  touch  my  mind 
But  that  to  die  means  leaving  you  behind  ? " 
— Had  it  been  mine,  unasked,  to  tread  the  way, 
Love's  fire  at  heart,  Oh,  I  had  gone  as  gay, 
My  hand  in  Death's,  as  when  I  first  was  wed, 
And  dreamed  that  Courage  took  me  to  his  bed  ! 
Too  late  I  learn  how  better  it  had  been 
— Better  for  him  as  well — had  I  never  seen 
That  chilling  duteous  path,  but  ere  I  died, 
Had  caught  him  by  the  throat,  had  boldly  cried, 
"  Die  for  yourself,  my  friend,  since  some  one  must, 
And,  dying,  learn  a  decency  in  dust  ! " 

CHORUS.     Some  cloud  seems  gathering  in  a  peaceful 

sky, 

Heavy  with  disappointment.     There's  no  high 
Example  of  domestic  virtue  left  ; 
Of  royal  guidance  womanhood's  bereft. 


68  LINES   OF   LIFE 

ALCESTIS.     My    strong    deliverer,    much-enduring 

heart, 

Much-labouring  Heracles,  resume  thy  part ; 
Once  more  deliver.     Frequent  is  the  death 
Thy  soul  has  ventured,  drawing  perilous  breath 
On  the  sharp  edge  of  fear,  nor  sought  exchange 
Of  doom  with  others.     Let  it  not,  then,  be  strange 
If  I,  a  widowed  woman,  offer  here 
Myself  to  thee,  myself  and  the  children  dear, 
To  do  thee  service  in  whatever  land 
Thy  labour  visits — dwell  beneath  thy  hand, 
Doing  and  suffering  with  my  natural  mate 
Amid  the  toil  and  storm  of  restless  fate. 

CHORUS.     By  shameless  lips  let  shameful  words  be 

spoken, 

Not  by  our  worshipped  queen  !     Alas,  how  broken 
Now  lies  the  established  bond,  the  charming  tie, 
Of  man  and  wife  united  till  they  die  ! 

PHERES.     My  son,  you'll  have  to  seek  another  wife 
To  die  next  time,  methinks,  or  yield  your  life. 

HERACLES.     Dear  woman,  not  ungrateful   would    I 

seem, 

For  gift  so  precious.     Far  above  price  I  deem 
The  love  of  women,  and  I  speak  who  know. 
But  in  the  savage  realms  whereto  I  go, 
How  would  you  follow,  with  these  twain  beside  ? 
How  'scape  carnivorous  horses  when  they  tried 


THE   RETURN   OF   ALCESTIS       69 

To  gobble  up  your  darlings  ?     Lonely  live 

The  enduring  hearts,  and  lonely  must  they  strive. 

ALCESTIS.     There  is  a  temple  looks  upon  the  sea 
Where  Pelion's  cliff  is  battered  ;    thither  we 
Will  climb  the  heights,  there  set  a  pleasing  shrine, 
With  solid  food  and  shelter,  plenteous  wine, 
And  balm  for  pilgrims  seeking  Heracles, 
In  spirit  or  in  person,  as  he  please 
To  hearten  up  those  hesitating  souls 
Who   would  and   would   not.     There   by   the  pilgrim 

doles 

Myself  shall  live  as  priestess,  serving  thee, 
With  these  unfathered  orphans — servants  three. 
So  then,  farewell,  Admetus  !     From  the  vow 
'Gainst  second  marriage  God  absolves  you  now, 
And  may  some  happier,  if  a  duller,  bride, 
Witless  of  truth,  inhabit  at  your  side. 
Farewell,  dear  servants,  farewell,  all  my  friends  ! 
'Tis  now  the  interment  of  Alcestis  ends. 

(She  and  her  children  go  out,  followed  by  Herac/es, 
who  wards  off  the  indignant  citizens.) 

ADMETUS  (standing  with  his  father  at  the  deserted 
breakfast  table).  My  friends,  'tis  grievous  in  a 
single  week, 

To  mourn  one's  helpmate  twice  ;    nor  may  I  seek 
Second  redemption  for  a  second  loss. 
My  sun  is  darkened,  gold  reduced  to  dross. 
Unwived,  unchilded,  thus  alone  I  stand, 


7o  LINES   OF   LIFE 

A  mark  for  pointing  mockery  in  my  land  : 
"  Behold  the  King  who  won  a  duteous  wife 
To  die  in  his  place,  so  much  he  cherished  life  ; 
But  all  his  eloquence  was  vain  to  move 
That  steadfast  soul  to  yield  the  Craven  love." 
Henceforth  in  every  household  through  the  State, 
Let  verses  twain  stand  carved  above  the  gate  : 
'*  A  woman's  heart  confronted  Death  to  save  ; 
A  woman's  scorn  stings  sharper  than  the  grave." 

CHORUS.     Many  the  forms  of  holy  revelation  ; 
Unlooked-for  are  the  ways  devised  by  God  ; 
Who  knows  how  fate  will  find  its  consummation, 
Or  by  what  labyrinth  life  will  seek  a  road  ? 
The  dawn  is  bright,  the  tempest  comes  at  even, 
And  with  the  night,  stars  reappear  in  heaven  ; 

So  is  man's  pathway  trod. 

FORWARD 

WHAT   choice   for   souls   defeated  ?      Shall  they 
turn 

Back  to  the  past  along  familiar  roads, 
Retracing  outward  footsteps,  so  to  learn 
Fate's  clenching  limits  drawn  around  them  tight, 
And  sit  hope-haunted  in  repatched  abodes  ? 
Like  those  Helvetians  who,  one  autumn  night, 
Reached  the  lone  valley  of  their  ancient  home, 
And  from  their  wagons  took  the  diminished  loads 
With  wives  and  little  ones,  and  laid  them  down 


FORWARD  71 

— Poor  savings  from  the  sovereign  might  of  Rome — 

Amid  the  windy  ruins  charred  and  brown 

Of  those  same  thresholds  they  had  left  erewhile 

Exulting  to  behold  the  exultant  flame 

Themselves  had  kindled,  light  for  many  a  mile 

Their  way  to  westward,  as  it  took  its  fill 

On  homestead,  croft,  and  barn  ;    which  now,  the  same 

But  fragments  now,  received  them  wailing  deep 

For  sons  and  fathers  lost  by  Jura's  hill, 

Or  at  Bibracte  slain,  or  such  as  sleep 

Where  sluggish  Arar  moves  his  tide  so  still 

That  scarcely  eye  perceives  it. 

Rather  we 

Smitten  and  shattered,  all  our  ensigns  gone, 
Not  one  poor  hope  remaining,  swear  to  keep 
An  ever-onward  course,  though  one  by  one 
Death  strike  us,  or  as  slaves  we  bend  the  knee 
At  alien  footstools.     Haply  some  may  reach 
The  furthest  limits  of  the  unconquered  realm, 
Our  once  imagined  empire,  and  may  see 
New  peaks  arise,  as  out  they  turn  the  helm 
Beyond  the  salt  wave  roaring  on  the  beach. 


DEDICATA 

FIRE  in  the  splendid  soul  indignant  burning, 
Her  eyes  ablaze  with  purifying  flame, 
Steadfast  she  trod  a  road  that  has  no  turning 
And  leads  to  no  reward  of  love  or  fame, 


72  LINES   OF   LIFE 

But  sorrow  only,  and  the  conspicuous  height 
Of  isolating  peril  and  naked  shame, 
Where  cruelty  stands  and  gazes  ;    not  a  light 
To  mark  her  footsteps  in  the  uncertain  storm, 
But  the  storm's  anger  quivering  through  the  night, 
And  that  deep  rage  consuming  her  own  heart 
With  fire  that  dims  the  lightning. 

Exquisite  form, 

Incarnate  semblance  of  an  exquisite  soul 
Therein  prefigured  for  its  counterpart  ! 
O  body  dedicate,  splendour-breathing  life, 
Onward  you  moved  to  what  invisible  goal, 
Alone,  unsheltered,  climbing  without  chart 
Through  haunted  darkness,  where  dim  shapes  at  strife 
Forebode  obscurely  ?     God-devoted  mind, 
Self-banished  exile,  purposely  desolate, 
To  sacrifice  self-condemned,  so  you  might  find 
Some  dubious  path,  some  narrowly  opening  gate, 
Whence  gleamed  a  fitful  hope  for  human  kind, 
Onward  you  moved,  doomed  to  the  nobler  fate, 
While  we  to  common  uses  of  the  day  are  left  behind. 

There  is  a  village  and  a  plain, 

Deep  in  jute  and  shimmering  rice, 
Where  the  golden  sun  and  golden  rain 

Nurture  a  peopled  paradise  ; 
Dust  of  buffaloes  trailing  home 

Tells  that  sleepy  evening's  come  ; 
Over  the  roofs  the  cloudy  spires 

Spring  from  bowls  upon  the  fires  ; 


DEDICATA  73 

And  beneath  the  sacred  tree, 

Guarding  men  and  beasts  and  lands, 
Hung  with  flowers  for  sanctity, 

Smeared  with  scarlet  the  idol  stands, 
Who  carries  life  and  death  in  multifarious  hands. 

Moth-like  figures  gather  round 

One  who  makes  his  darkening  way 
Upward  to  the  enchanted  ground 

Past  the  rainbow  gates  of  day  ; 
Wrapt  in  the  saffron  robe,  he  goes 

To  heights  of  Himalayan  snows, 
There,  alone  with  stars  and  sky, 

To  stare  on  God's  immensity  ; 
But  they  return  to  the  cattle-fold, 

Boil  the  pots  and  lay  the  bed, 
Hang  the  garland  of  marigold 

Round  the  vermilion  idol's  head, 
Who  gives  the  living  life,  and  sleep  to  all  the  dead. 

Like  them  we  turn  from  her  and  go 
Our  comfortable  ways.     Ah,  worse  than  so  ! 

Rather  we  seem  like  one 
Who  in  old  times  lay  crouching  far  apart, 
And  watched  the  slowly-mounting  sun 

And  waited  with  sick  heart, 
Till  from  the  prison  gates  he  heard 
The  expected  shout  break  on  the  morning  glare 
And  crash  from  shouting  street  to  street, 

Striking  one  hideous  word, 


74  LINES   OF   LIFE 

That  drowned  the  clang  of  soldiers'  feet, 
And  howled  above  the  great  cathedral  square 
In  triumph  of  execration. 

Then  there  fell 

On  silence  the  slow  service  for  the  dying, 
And  the  death-tolling  bell. 

How  small  and  white  she  stands  ! 

So  white  a  thing  among  the  staring  eyes, 

And  small  ! 

But  now  they  are  tying 

Cords  on  her  feet,  cords  on  her  sacred  hands. 
They  strain  a  biting  rope  around  her  thighs  ; 
Below  the  tender  rising  of  her  breast 
A  belt  of  iron  is  clamped,  and  at  her  throat 
A  twisted  steel  ;  and  for  a  parting  jest 
Across  her  mouth  they  knot  two  lengths  of  hair. 

Oh,  see  !     What  vapours  float  ? 
What  filmy  creature  crawls  into  the  air  ? 
Smoke,  threads  of  smoke  !     And  now  a  worm  of  fire  ! 
Great  globes  of  smoke  !  Crackling  of  firewood  !  Flame — 
Flame  of  devouring  serpents  leaping  higher  ! 
And  then  a  cry — a  cry  !     In  mercy's  name  ! 
The  vesture's  gone.     Let  fire  and  smoke  in  haste 
Conceal.     God  strike  all  gazers  blind  ! — 
A  whiteness  darkens  ;    forward  falls  her  head  ; 
God's  temple  crumbles  ;    beauty  all  effaced  ; 
Flakes  of  her  body  swim  upon  the  wind, 
And  on  the  wind  her  passionate  soul  is  sped. 


DEDICATA  75 

So  as  the  last  flame,  pale  in  the  sunshine,  burned, 
He  who  had  loved  her  from  the  market  turned, 
And  saw  the  shops  reopening,  pavements  cleared, 
And  merry  tables  set  for  dinner-time, 
While  from  the  great  cathedral's  choir  he  heard 
Old  priests  concluding  mass  on  stroke  of  the  noonday 
chime. 


A    PRAYER    IN    SPRING 

IF  prayer  fulfil  itself  as  a  fateful  dream, 
What  should  I  pray  this  turbulent  eve  of  March, 
While  the  last  hurricane  whirls  along  the  hills, 

With  snowy  streamers  grey, 
And  clouds  in  echelon  traverse  the  radiant  arch 
Whence  an  invisible  sun  shoots  forth  a  beam 
Singly  through  some  translucent  edge,  and  fills 
With  sudden  glory  amid  the  extended  plain 
A  village  and  its  fields,  or  on  her  way 
Lights  the  wild  river  to  one  silver  gleam 
At  the  foot  of  cloud-swept  mountains,  and  again 
Withdraws  his  light  invisible  ?     Oh,  but  hark  ! 
There's  the  unchanging  lark 

Greeting  the  centuries  of  spring, 
And  from  a  leafless  ash  the  thrushes  sing  ! 
So  Nature  labours  at  her  ancient  play, 
Groping  with  song  and  radiance  through  the  ethereal 

dark  ; 
And  while  old  Earth  awaits  her  Easter  Day, 

What  should  I  pray  ? 


y6  LINES   OF    LIFE 

Not  long,  not  long  is  left  ;    I  have  laboured  long, 
And  much  enjoyed,  much  suffered,  wandering  far 
In  unknown  wilds  and  cities  of  old  fame, 
Through  a  darkness  groping  pierced  with  lights  and  song  ; 
And  secret  strife  have  shared,  and  open 'war 
Where  the  lost  battle  shook  intolerable  wrong  ; 
Love  open,  too,  I  have  shared,  and  love  that  came 
With  secret  fragrance  of  a  midnight  rose, 
And  silent  arms  ;    and  after  Wisdom's  flame 
As  a  wild  hunter  sought 

In  life  and  record,  following  where  she  goes 

Down  the  pale  glens  of  thought  ; 
Much  have  I  striven,  like  the  old  Greek  who  chose 
Service  to  war  and  the  Muses — each  a  strife  ; 
But  in  the  dusk  and  storm  that  battle  wrought 
Peace  came  undreamt  of,  as  a  miraculous  flower 

Sprung  from  a  harsh  and  thorny  stick, 
And  rapturous  for  an  hour 

Two  things  repent  me  now  in  that  vanished  life  : 

First,  that,  when  joy  or  conflict  sped 
In  streaming  hurricane  past,  I  was  not  quick 
— Not  always  quick — to  clutch  one  by  the  throat, 
Or  strain  by  her  tangled  beams  that  other's  head 
Laughing  against  me  ;    but  as  I  sprang,  they  had  fled 
Far  down  irrevocable  time,  with  a  crying  note 
Of  mockery  on  the  whirlwind  ;  still  the  more 
I  do  repent  in  conflict  to  have  shown 
A  coward's  complaisance  to  the  established  foe, 
Entrenched  in  custom  and  with  dulness  blown  ; 


A   PRAYER   IN   SPRING  77 

Them  I  have  greeted,  entered  the  same  door, 

Joined  in  their  boasted,  smug  amenities 

Of  life  political,  gone  where  opponents  go 

For  foul  communion  o'er  their  bread  and  wine, 

Concealing  hate  where  none  is  to  conceal, 

And  for  sham  fights  devising  strategies  ; 

Yes,  and  have  listened,  yielded  them  the  floor, 

Assumed  a  suavity  such  as  flunkeys  feel, 

Polite  and  three-parts  coward,  when  'twas  mine 

To  have  smote  them  grovelling  by  one  passionate  blow, 

Amazed  at  wrath's  revelation. 

Wherefore  now, 

On  these  old  downs  awakening  to  the  spring, 
That  will  not  often  wake  me,  penitent 
For  those  my  sins,  I  consecrate  a  vow 
Ever  to  watch  alert  for  the  angel  wing 
Of  chance  escaping  covert,  all  intent 
With  straining  limbs  to  leap  on  her  flight  and  cling 
Unshamed,  without  reserve,  against  her  heart 
Whether  for  love  or  battle.     And  here  I  pray, 
If  prayer  fulfil  itself  as  a  fateful  dream, 
For  obdurate  steel  to  encompass  every  part 
Of  coward  in  my  soul,  that  so  I  may 
Admit  no  courtesy  luring  me  to  abate 
Enmity's  due  for  sweetness,  never  deem 
Tolerance  else  than  treason's  utmost  crime, 
Swim  not  with  specious  foes  in  the  yielding  stream, 
But  stand  unmoved  by  compromise  as  fate, 
Turn  from  the  forward  course  no  more  than  time, 
Speak  at  sword's  point  with  the  enemy  at  the  gate, 
And  with  a  perfect  hatred  hate. 
6 


78  LINES  OF   LIFE 

SOLDIER    M.P. 

TO  me  one  moment  in  this  filthy  war 
Glows  with  unparalleled  delight  : — 
We  had  been  planted  out,  three  weeks  or  more, 
To  hold  some  inconspicuous  height — 
A  nameless,  vital  height ; 

Heavy  with  muck  of  mingled  blood  and  clay, 
Down  long  communication  trenches, 

We  stumbled  back  to  where  the  rest-camp  lay, 
And  sank  secure  upon  the  benches — 
The  quiet,  cleanly  benches. 

We  flung  aside  the  kit  with  all  its  dirt, 
The  tunic  stiff  with  freezing  weather, 

Peeled  off  the  louse-infested  drawers  and  shirt, 
And  plunged  into  the  bath  together — 
A  dozen  men  together. 

Oh,  the  grand  joy  to  feel  hot  water  swirling 
Round  grimy  thighs  and  shoulders  bare  ! 

To  watch  the  clotted  dust  in  eddies  whirling 
From  hairy  chest  and  close-cut  hair — 
The  mousy,  close-cut  hair  ! 

Then  to  arise  and  stand  in  nakedness, 
Drawing  life  up  with  newborn  breath, 

And  in  new-issued  uniform  to  dress, 
Clean  as  a  soul  renewed  by  death- 
By  body-purging  death  ! 


SOLDIER   M.P.  79 

And  now,  returned  to  London,  invalided, 

I'm  back  again  in  politics, 
Holding  a  height  where  reinforcement's  needed 

To  frustrate  certain  knavish  tricks — 
Those  unconfounded  tricks. 

So  here  we  cling  to  freedom's  ancient  right, 
Hard-won  of  old  for  England's  kind  ; 

But  nowhere  is  a  rest-camp  now  in  sight, 
Nor  bath  to  purge  the  encumbered  mind — 
The  talk-encrusted  mind. 

Oh  but  to  see  constituents  washed  away, 
To  win  from  mouldy  meetings  peace, 

Feel  resolutions  crumble  like  the  clay, 
And  clotted  controversy  cease — 
Dissolve  to  dust,  and  cease  ! 

To  pick  the  crawling  catchwords  from  the  brain, 

To  shed  intriguing  tactics  whole, 
To  hear  committees  gurgling  down  the  drain, 

And  rise  a  heaven-enfranchised  soul — 
A  clean,  transfigured  soul  ! 


A    CABINET    MINISTER 

SOME  years  ago  he  started  on  his  course, 
Equipt  and  emulous  for  the  nobler  fame  ; 
Aspiring  principle,  intellectual  force, 

And  conscience  pledged  the  promise  of  his  name  ; 


8o  LINES   OF  LIFE 

Proud  was  the  allegiance  that  his  speeches  gave 
To  freedom  in  historic  contests  won  ; 

But  now  his  soul  lies  mouldering  in  the  grave, 
And  his  body  goes  marching  on. 


His  democratic  Party  feared  his  zeal, 

Too  grand  in  aim,  in  method  too  benign  ; 
His  bosom  cherished  every  mortal's  weal, 

Proclaiming  peace  and  charity  divine  ; 
Out  of  the  abyss  he  called  on  God  to  save 

Wrecks  of  the  world  from  wrongs  the  world   had 

done  ; 
But  now  his  soul  lies  mouldering  in  the  grave, 

And  his  body  goes  marching  on. 

Behold  him  soon,  live  mummy  of  his  past, 

Adept  for  honours,  deaf  to  honour's  call, 
To  Ministerial  seats  descending  fast, 

While  conscious  Ministers  applaud  his  fall ; 
Alas  for  resolutions  doomed  to  pave 

The  infernal  surface  that  he  treads  upon  ! 
For  now  his  soul  lies  mouldering  in  the  grave 

And  his  body  goes  marching  on. 

Colleague  of  cruelty,  mouthing  mercy  still, 

Coercion's  helpmate,  to  coerce  afraid, 
He  murdered  freedom  half  against  his  will, 

And  kissed  the  holiness  he  had  just  betrayed  ; 


A   CABINET    MINISTER  81 

Endearing  enemy,  half-reluctant  knave, 

A  cross-bred  hypocrite,  Peckniff's  bastard  son  ; 

For  now  his  soul  lies  mouldering  in  the  grave, 
And  his  body  goes  marching  on. 

Last  stage  of  all  :    he  shares  the  tyrant's  fate, 

Sees  honour  from  afar,  and  knows  it  lost, 
Knocks  at  the  golden  door,  and  knocks  too  late, 

Expelled  from  glory  where  he  sought  it  most  ; 
Peace,  mercy,  justice,  resolutions  brave, 

Love  for  mankind  and  freedom — all  are  gone, 
For  now  his  soul  lies  mouldering  in  the  grave, 

And  his  body  goes  marching  on. 


A    VIGIL 

THE  summer  day  is  closing  like  a  flower 
That  has  drunk  long  of  sunshine  and  will  sleep 
Till  dawn  renews  her  splendour.     It  is  the  hour 
When  half  the  implacably  revolving  star 
Sleeps  to  recover  life.     And  here  I  keep 
A  vigil  faithful  to  one  soul  afar, 
For  whom  night  brings  no  life-renewing  peace, 
But  while  I  breathe  in  vigil,  every  breath 
Hastens  the  moment  when  his  breath  shall  cease 
In  unimaginable  death. 

Across  the  street  some  one,  reprieved  to  pleasure 
From  labour's  prison-house,  with  windows  wide 


82  LINES   OF   LIFE 

Diffuses  music — solemn  music,  such 

As  gods  might  move  to  when  they  move  in  measure 

Through  heaven's  eternal  fields.     Hark,  at  the  touch 

How  themes  with  themes  embracing  intertwine 

And  sweep  aloft  to  soar  and  march  and  ride 

On  wings  beyond  the  storm-clouds,  and  dispart 

To  summon  new  companions  and  combine 

In  figures  fixed  by  some  eternal  art 

Before  creation  !     It  is  the  selfsame  song 

The  morning  stars  sang  when  they  sang  together 

And  shouts  of  joy  harmonious  rose  among 

The  eternal  sons  of  God  ; 
But  to  the  exultant  strains  that  last  for  ever 
Unchanged,  unfailing,  still  the  moments  run, 
Like  ghosts  of  soldiers  filing  down  a  road 

To  vanish  one  by  one, 

Returning  never. 

Now  in  his  cell  they  kindle  up  a  light, 

The  privilege  due  to  one  so  soon  to  die, 

That  he  may  sanctify  his  final  night, 

Having  a  lamp  to  read  the  Bible  by, 

God's  word  eternal,  passing  not  away. 

Oh,  what  has  he  to  learn  from  God's  own  book  ? 

Wide  as  the  sunlit  heaven  his  spirit  lay — 

A  sunlit  sky  through  which  tumultuous  wind 

Sweeps  the  black  thunder-cloud  and  leaves  behind 

A  wide  and  sunlit  sky.     For  still  he  took 

Into  his  heart  the  sorrows  of  mankind 

And  heard  the  silent  crying  of  a  wrong 


A  VIGIL  83 

Crying  in  lonely  darkness  for  the  day 

His  coming  heralded.     Was  any  wrath, 

Was  any  angry,  and  he  burned  not  with  flame 

Devouring  as  the  sudden  lightning's  path, 

And  as  the  wind  which  drives  the  tempest  strong  ? 

But  from  the  storm  emerging  still  the  same, 

Glows  the  big  sun,  rejoicing  in  the  race 

Among  his  equal  stars, 
And  on  the  mountains  bends  a  joyful  face 
To  light  the  dewdrops  of  the  misty  glen 
With  radiance.     Radiant  was  that  spirit  born 
Which  now  they  cage  behind  the  prison  bars 
As  showmen  cage  some  lion  in  a  den 
Far  from  the  forest. 

And  to-morrow  morn 
Along  this  very  street  newsboys  will  cry, 
"  Last  moments  and  death  scenes  !  "  for  common  scorn 
To  snatch  and  read  and  pass.     O  Thou  Most  High, 
Where  is  that  holiness  eternal  now 
When  the  last  night's  quick  fingers  have  begun 
To  close  around  that  spirit  ?     Thou — dost  Thou — 
Dost  Thou  continue  holy,  O  Thou  Holy  One  ? 

There  is  a  land  too  dear  for  a  lover's  words 

Lying  beyond  the  sunset  like  a  dream 

In  magic  slumber,  and  around  her  shore 

Of  cloudy  promontories  the  wandering  birds 

As  spirits  of  her  lovers  calling  seem 

To  hang  about  her  still,  and  evermore 

The  big  waves  surge  and  gulp  and  surge  again 


84  LINES   OF   LIFE 

Below  the  sea-cliffs  ;    changeful  mountains  run 
Encompassing  the  wilderness  of  her  heart 
With  purple  jewelry  and  with  silver  rain, 
Whence  fan-like  rays  pour  from  the  hidden  sun 
To  light  the  rainbow's  unexpected  gleam 
On  flying  clouds  far  distant. 

Counterpart 

Of  that  enchanted  country  people  find 
In  all  her  children,  but  in  him  was  found 
Unchanging  passion  for  her,  constant  faith, 
Unswerving  love  for  all  her  holy  ground, 
And  steadfastness  of  the  undeviating  mind 
That  leads  him  now  to  death. 


Darkness  and  deeper  darkness,  short-lived  night, 
Revealing  stars  and  stars  and  further  stars 
Beyond  capacity  of  thought  or  sight, 
Innumerable,  multitudinous, 
Crowded  in  swarms,  and  separate  by  the  bars 
Of  million  uncrossed  miles,  each  star  a  sun 
Bursting  with  huge  volcanoes  thunderous, 
And  girt  by  spinning  fragments,  like  the  dust 
Flung  from  a  chariot's  wheel,  and  one  by  one 
Moving  in  isolation  with  its  planets,  just 
As  our  own  sun,  a  child  among  the  stars, 
Moves  with  the  dust-speck  of  our  troublous  earth, 
Sliding  through  infinite  darkness,  none  knows  where, 
Nor  knows  if  all  the  suns  of  the  visible  sky 
Light  but  one  little  hall  in  starry  space 


A  VIGIL  85 

Of  universe  after  universe. 

Oh,  what  worth 

Is  man  or  life — one  little  life  ?     What  care 
In  all  that  firmament  whether  he  live  or  die  ? 
What  hope,  what  love  avails  before  the  face 
Of  burning  worlds  in  station  ?     Or  what  prayer  ? 


Quick  blood  is  moving  in  the  brave  heart  still  ; 
It  throbs  in  pulses  to  the  hands  and  feet, 
Ceaselessly  leaping  in  live  jets  that  fill 
With  life  the  muslin  network  of  the  flesh, 
The  sacred  web  where  soul  and  substance  meet, 
Mysterious,  passing  knowledge,  with  a  mesh 
Of  wonder  interwoven  till  it  works 
In  perfect  function  ;  limbs  obey  the  call 
Of  lightning  riders  racing  to  and  fro, 
Silent,  invisible,  carrying  the  commands 
Of  a  dominant  thing  unknown,  that  somewhere  lurks 
Silent,  invisible,  hidden  apart  from  all, 
But  interfused  and  intermingled  so 
That  while  they  live  secure,  secure  it  stands, 
And  if  they  suffer,  suffering  too  it  lies, 
And  if  they  die,  it  dies. 


How  many  beats  has  now  that  heart  to  make  r 
They  might  be  counted — so  many  to  go 
To  every  minute  of  the  shortening  hours. 
Few  the  commands  those  riders  now  will  take 


86  LINES   OF   LIFE 

Till  their  last  order  bids  the  feet  to  tread 
Slowly  behind  in  that  procession  slow 
A  priest  leads  thither  where  the  infernal  powers 
Will  stop  the  blood  from  running,  stop  the  heart, 
Quench  lighted  eyes,  shut  the  ears'  listening, 
Silence  the  voice,  break  short  the  woven  thread, 
Chill  the  warm  limbs,  strike  rigid  every  part, 
Slay  all  that  miracle  of  a  living  thing, 

Till  that  itself  is  dead 

Which  dwelt  in  secret,  but  in  flesh  revealed, 
A  furnace  blazing  with  an  unseen  flame, 
Lighting  the  world,  and  in  itself  concealed, 
Known  among  men,  itself  without  a  name, 
Sleepless  by  day,  sleepless  in  dreams  by  night, 
So  endless  seeming,  and  yet  thus  to  end, 
That  secret  thing,  that  fire,  that  life,  that  light, 
My  friend  ! 

The  chamber  walls  around  me  stealthily 

Glimmer  like  ghosts  in  grey  ; 
Bookshelves  and  tables  slowly  re-appear, 
Like  ghosts  emerging,  and  the  northern  sky 
Turns  pale  in  darkness  ;    streets  and  houses  near 
Show  brown  already  ;    for  the  dawn  is  here, 

And  it  is  now  to-day. 

They  set  about  it  now.     Like  ghosts  they  creep 
From  court  to  court  inside  the  prison  gate 
To  boil  the  coffee,  make  the  breakfast   ready, 


A   VIGIL  87 

Knock  up  the  drowsy  hangman  from  his  sleep  ; 
He  sees  the  rope  is  right,  the  scaffold  steady, 
Drives  in  a  nail  and  rectifies  a  plank, 
Grumbling  he's  up  too  soon  and  has  to  wait. 
But  in  the  cell  lies  one  who  needs  no  waking  ; 
He  watches  too  the  walls  grow  white  and  blank  ; 
The  final  light,  the  light  of  death  is  breaking  ; 
Never  again  shall  he  behold  the  day 
Steal  through  the  sightless  window,  nor  again 
Hear  the  familiar  jangle  of  the  keys 
As  warders  tramp  those  metal  passages 
Which  he  shall  tread  fast  bound  as  with  a  chain — 
Pinioned  they  call  it,  like  a  wild  bird  trapped 
And  wild  wings  mutilated. 

Far  away 

This  very  dawn  steals  down  a  mountain  side 
Below  the  summit  sleeping  still  enwrapped 
In  unmoved  clouds  of  quietude  and  night, 
And  brings  a  cool  grey  back  to  lichened  rocks, 
And     brown     to     the     sodden     turf,     and     to     each 

flower 

Yellow  for  scented  broom,  and  a  ruddy  glow 
For  heather,  where  the  bees  are  now  awake  ; 
Now  on  the  shore  the  slow-descending  light 
Touches  the  whitening  ripples  as  they  break 
In  bubbles  against  the  sand  with  the  flowing  tide, 
And  rouses  wild  birds  up  in  whitening  flocks 
Of  crying  terns  and  Solan  geese  that  go 
Through  the  clear  air  of  this  same  morning  hour 
Swooping  and  plunging. 


88  LINES   OF   LIFE 

In  the  whitewashed  cell 
Does  any  vision  of  that  distant  home, 
Abiding  constant  there,  unchanging,  rise 
As,  living  still,  with  death  close  to  his  eyes, 
He  hears  the  lawful  instruments  of  hell 
Approaching,  for  the  end  has  come  ? 

And  now  remains  the  unconquerable  will, 
The  soul  untamed,  defiant  to  the  death, 
The  life's  example,  calling  to  us  still 
To  stand  untamed,  unconquered,  and  defy 
Legalized  murderers,  spewing  poisonous  breath, 
Successful  ghouls  of  purchased  infamy, 
Life's  prostitutes,  suckers  of  noble  blood, 
And  freedom's  hypocrites  whose  zeal  is  spent 
In  praising  distant  freedom  ;    cultured  minds 
Of  careful  ease  that  pass  and  wag  the  head  ; 
The  impenetrable  shoals  of  dull  content 
Entombed  in  custom  as  blind  eels  in  mud  ; 
Habituated  sluggards,  torpid  kinds 
Of  worm  in  their  own  torpor  comforted  ; 
And  all  the  Might,  Dominion,  Majesty, 
Thrones,  Principalities,  and  Kingly  Powers, 
Rejoicing  now  he  is  dead. 

That  still  remains,  and  this  beside  is  ours  : 
To  covet  no  reward  of  worldly  state  ; 
To  live  indifferent  to  the  public  hate  ; 
Nor  drink  the  alluring  opiate  of  a  home  ; 
Yield  to  no  love,  consort  with  never  a  friend 


A   VIGIL  89 

Save  only  such  as  will  espouse  for  fate 
The  losing  battle  and  the  inglorious  end, 
Or  with  insatiable  desire  will  roam 
Ever  confronting  wave  beyond  the  wave 
Recurrent  o'er  the  wastes  of  trackless  foam  ; 
Like  those  hard  mariners  who,  rejecting  ease 
With  wives  and  goatherds  in  the  sheltered  peace 
Of  long-sought  Ithaca,  conspired  to  save 
From  brute  extinction  that  eternal  spark 
Which  burned  for  action's  knowledge,  and  beheld 
Strange  stars  above  a  world  where  no  man  dwelled, 
And  beat  the  encircling  ocean  till  they  found 
One  great  brown  mountain,  where  the  lonely  bark, 
Struck  by  an  evil  wind,  turned  three  times  round, 
And  at  the  fourth  plunged  to  her  lonely  grave, 
Untraced,  unfathomable,  dark, 

Upon  the  abysmal  ground 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by 
UNWW  BROTHERS,    LIMITED,   THE  GRBSHAM  PRESS,   WOKJNQ  AND  LONDON 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
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